


Night Terrors

by BWaves



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bonding, Developing Relationship, EXCITING, M/M, Night Terrors, Nightmares, not sure what else to put here, wow i've never done this before
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-04
Updated: 2013-11-04
Packaged: 2017-12-22 09:24:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 16
Words: 25,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/911577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BWaves/pseuds/BWaves
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dave is suffering from night terrors for reasons unknown to him, yet while it's way lame to trust Craigslist to find you a roommate to keep you from hurting yourself when you sleep-walk, he finds it necessary. Because there's no way in Hell he's moving back in with Bro. Not happening.</p><p>This Egbert guy has some promise, though. He could be an okay roommate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Over And Over Again In A Constant Cycle

**Author's Note:**

> So this was my first fanfiction, originally posted on fanfiction.net (Nah really, how about that!) and it's gotten some good feedback so I figured I'd post it on here for those that don't use fanfiction.net. I'm also moving it here because my readers on ff have been promised some sexiness when I finish the story and technically I can't post that on ff, but I can post it here!

Your dreams were always such a bother. They were always boring or completely nightmarish, and there was truly no in between. There were no happy dreams, you couldn't remember the last time you had a wet-dream and weren't those supposed to be pretty common? No, the majority of your sleep was filled with the same agonizing pain, repeatedly, over and over again in a constant cycle that never seemed to let up.

Your name is Dave Strider, and despite being a full grown man you suffer from night terrors. Rather often, actually, and for a time you thought you'd be able to handle it yourself, you moved away from your bro, you lived alone, but after a week straight of waking up outside staring at the sky you decided that you really needed someone around. Someone who could shake you back into reality and get you back inside before you get sick again.

None of your friends knew about this little problem of yours, and part of you didn't want them to know. You were too cool to suffer from child problems, night terrors were for kids. You checked, it wasn't normal for adults, and the only thing not normal about you was how cool you thought you were.

No. Correction. How cool you ARE.

Admittedly it wasn't the only thing not normal about you, but your friends didn't have to know that.

Your bro suggested you move back in with him, at least until the night terrors stopped, but that was far from an option, you were determined to stay away, you figured you were perfectly capable of maintaining a functional life-style on your own. Or, mostly on your own, you devised a plan to find someone who'll be around that won't tell all your damn friends about it.

So you'll sacrifice a little of your cool and get a roommate. Someone who didn't know or hang out with your friends, someone who wouldn't tell them jack shit about your nightly activities. And, if you could find one, someone who's busy too often to be around the apartment. Now you'd have to find a new apartment, seeing as your current one only has one bedroom, but if they're splitting the rent that shit is manageable.

Finding that perfect roomie was going to be the problem, you knew; because there were going to be people who you wouldn't like right off the bat, but the surprising turnover with that post on Craigslist says that you have a chance of finding someone in there worthy of your time and living space. And after a few days of talking to people and sitting through all the 'oh fuck no's and all the 'does that even occur in nature's you run across someone who, quite simply, has potential.

After an hour of talking to him (a whole forty-five minutes longer than most of the other candidates) you think he may do the trick. His name's John, he's a first year intern at the hospital in town, which means he works a lot of hours, so he'll be away often, he's got a bitchin' movie collection (bitchin' being used rather lightly, too much Cage for your liking) and he's already expressed that he doesn't mind that you play your music loud. He's perfect, on paper, but he hasn't answered the final question.

"Okay so, I like you," You say and the other smiles, like he's happy to hear it, "but before we start up the moving van, you gotta be cool with..." You pause to search for the words. His smile seems to falter ever so slightly, and despite that fact his teeth are still sticking out. He's kind of a goofy looking dude, now that you think about it. "Dealing with me. If I, like, wake up in the middle of the night." You give a smooth wave of your hand, like it's not a big deal, even though this is basically the clincher on this deal whether he says yes or no.

He seems to think it over for few minutes, and you figure he's probably trying to decipher what you mean by 'deal with'. "Well there's a number of things I could deal with, but depending on my ability really kind of depends on what I'll be dealing with." Spot on observation, Strider. He stares at you, and if not for the shades you wore he'd be making eye contact. You only stare back. You're not elaborating any further and he seems to take a while to gather this fact up, before humming to himself.

"I think I can deal with whatever it is I'll have to deal with." He says, shrugging like he's unsure. But it's good enough, the guy's a doctor he's got to get some sort of kick out of helping people.

You smile, and it feels strange compared to your normal poker face. "Alright, cool." Your tone doesn't reflect your expression, which shortly returns to it's normal poker face. "I think we may get along, yet, Egbert."


	2. You Might As Well Unpack

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So since I'm so far ahead on ff I'm going to post a chapter every day on here until I get up to speed. SO here's chapter two.

"Okay, so wait, let me see if I got this straight," Oh god, that voice could drive you up a fucking tree. Probably the most annoying person you ever had the displeasure of knowing but somehow you had befriended the guy. You're still not sure how that happened. "So Dave Strider, THE Dave Strider, got a roommate, that isn't me?" You stare at him over the box in your arms for a moment, shrugging your shoulders in indifference.

Karkat took everything so damn personal sometimes, and this was a really stupid thing to take personally. "You've got a roommate, Karkat." You say simply.

"Yeah, well Gamzee's a shit roommate." He pointed out, opening the box in your arms, looking in and taking it from you. Gamzee was one of your co-workers, kind of.

"I heard that." You hear a voice from the kitchen and you both seem to turn toward it, before Karkat responds.

"Yeah, well you're a shit roommate, Gamzee." He called in response.

"Language!" You hear from behind you and then you hear Gamzee laugh, but it seems to be the end of the conversation. Karkat rolls his eyes, tilting his head toward the freezer. You follow, opening the door to the walk-in for him and letting him pass you with the box full of apples.

The job you hold down, currently, was quite a ways from what you expected to be doing by now. You were pretty sure a few years ago that you'd have a sweet job; an awesome one you looked forward to doing rather than waiting on tables of pompous rich people.

The only reason the crowd in this particular joint was rich was because it was conveniently tucked into the ritzy neighborhoods of Avery Ranch, the 'higher class' area around Austin, Texas. 

You were glad for the job, though, you met Karkat and Gamzee here and even though Gamzee gave you the creeps you were glad to get along with most of the people you worked with. Most being the key word there. There was that Sollux guy that got on your nerves, but he was hardly ever around.

It takes upwards of a week to get all the moving finished, between work at the restaurant and your, well, nightmares, the moving takes a bit out of you. As you put the last box in your room, you breathe a long sigh of relief. Moving two times in just as many months was stupid. But what was done was done. You'd already paid for cutting your lease at the old place off, all of yours and John's stuff was here. You had the key in your pocket and you had already made the place home with a reversible welcome mat that currently read 'go away'.

Essentially, it was all great. It was your first official day in the new-new place, to your knowledge, at least from what John has told you, your roommate was going to be gone all day. Honestly, you weren't sure what to do for the time that you were alone here. You could unpack, or play a video game or... Well, you might as well unpack. You don't even remember what box all your games ended up in.

So you start unpacking, and killing time for the most part, and all too soon the time has ceased being killed and you're sitting on your bed, staring at the wall trying to think of what to do now. The urge to play a video game had drifted away, when you were looking over your collection and seeing that you already beat, or got bored with, all of them. You needed a new one, you decide, and you're pulling on your sneakers to leave when you hear a door close and a voice call out your name.

You finish tying your shoes and leave your room, John standing by the door and kicking off his shoes. "Why does the door mat say 'go away'?" He asked, smiling like he really didn't care, and he looked at you from across the living room.

"Because it doesn't like people," You respond simply, shrugging your shoulders, "It's in a crabby mood today, and it certainly doesn't need you butting into it's business." You say, pointing at him like any of this was even borderline serious. You arms cross over your chest and you lean in your doorway, "I just put it down that way." You shrug, "If you turn it over it says 'come in'." Like it matters.

John stares at you oddly for a moment, before laughing a little. You, however, kept your straight face, shrugging again before making your way wordlessly to the kitchen, opening a cabinet and grabbing a cup. He seems to go about his business as you put a bit of tap-water in the cup, taking a sip to determine whether it was drinkable or not. It seems fine and you fill it up, walking into the living room where John has taken a seat on the couch, pinching the bridge of his nose like a friend of yours, Rose, used to always do.

"Stressed?" You ask. You don't really care, for the most part, but the silence was starting to creep into awkward territory. If you were gonna live with the guy you were at least going to try and be friends, right?

He looks at you for a beat before nodding a little, smiling, "A bit, yeah." He says, leaning forward onto his knees. "Friend of mine was admitted to the hospital today, and I was lucky enough to be his doctor." You notice the worry that dashes across his face as his smile falters. "He took a pretty bad spill down some stairs, and I'm just worried about the worst case scenario."

You nod a little, understanding but not really getting why he would worry about someone falling down some stairs. People fall down stairs all the time with little to no injury, what made his case so bad? Unless it was an escalator or some shit.

It takes a good amount of power not to laugh, not to smile at that thought. As humorous as it was, the image of someone tripping comically at the top of the moving stairway and tumbling continually as the steps move past them. You place a hand over your mouth, turning away from him as the thought perpetuates itself in your head. You can't laugh at that, it's mean. What if it's actually what happened?

"I think he might be okay." John's voice pulls you back to reality and you manage to shake the thought away. You finish your drink placing the cup in the sink and make your way to the couch, sitting and leaning on the arm to converse with the other. It'll help with living together not being awkward. "I'm probably worrying over nothing." He laughed then, nervously. He knew something was wrong with his friend, hell with the way he was acting you knew something was wrong with his friend.

"What's the worst case scenario?" You ask, showing a bit of interest to find out what it could be that he was so intensely worried about.

"Paralysis." He says simply, and you nod a bit; somewhat hoping for the best for he guy, whoever he is.

The fact that you were going to go get a new video game escapes your mind and you and John spend the next few hours talking. Through an interesting topic-chain your original conversation about paralysis eventually turns into a full blown debate on the legitimacy of rap as a musical genre. You're adamant that it's the best music genre, but of course your roommate begs to differ.

He doesn't seem to show any preference for any one genre though, and as the musical debate came to a close it could easily be said that you and your roommate would get along swimmingly. Sure you had your differences, but despite his, apparently, bad taste in music you seemed to get along on most other things. You take a moment to applaud yourself for making a good choice.

When you both fall into silence, having run out of topics for the time being you finally bother to check the time. it's not insanely late, but you have the morning shift the next day. The two of you bid goodnight and go to your rooms. You don't know about him, but you crash the moment your head hits the pillow, which is, of course, both a blessing and a curse.


	3. This Isn't The Worst

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I came up with this nonsense while walking my own dog. And while it seems like pointless shenanigans now it makes sense later.

It's really dark. It's probably midnight, maybe later. You look up to the sky, eyeing the moon for a good minute before shrugging. You're outside and the gentle breeze feels cool against your exposed arms, and when you look down at yourself you're clad in jeans and a wife beater. Not your typical rags, and you don't remember changing into them. You look up to the porch light that shines on you, not recognizing the shed that it shone from. There's another building, a small house, not too far away from the shed.

The light on the front of the shed shines brightly at you, and as you look the building over you see the wall of dark around the corner, where the light doesn't quite reach. You turn around and you're facing the road, a road that runs parallel to the shed but splits off and goes up a hill and there's nothing but forest around the edges.

A tug on your wrist alerts you a tiny bit, and you turn, seeing a bright blue strap of fabric running once around your wrist and trailing a few feet away where it is attached to the collar of a dog. You don't remember having a dog. You stare at the canine, who tugs on the leash a little harder, in the direction of the dark area beside the shed.

"No." You say, and when the word escapes your mouth it sounds muffled, like you're underwater, and noticing it you reach for your ears, seeing if there was anything over them. There was nothing and your say a few more things. "Good dog." When the dog stops pulling on you and the second attempt at speech sounds normal. Like you're outside in the dark. Normal.

You tug on the leash a tiny bit, making your way to the house by the shed but as you're nearing the door you hear a low growl and your arm is pulled back, hard away from the door. Looking over your shoulder you see that the dog is pulling you back and despite how much you fight the creature he manages to get you further from the door. "The fuck, dog?" You say giving the leash a small tug and soon the dog has dragged you back to where you started and is again gently trying to coax you toward the darkness behind the shed.

You're about ready to tell the dog to fuck off when you hear your name. It's said in a growl, not dissimilar to the dog in front of you, but it's louder. It sounds farther away and when you look at the dog he sits quietly in the grass, staring at you and looking... Bored. Could dogs look bored? "What was that?" You ask, as if you expect the canine to answer. He smiles.

The dog fucking smiles at you, grinning to bear his sharp teeth, but makes no noises. You stare him down for a long time before he barks, loud, and you flinch, your eyes snapping shut for the briefest of starts and suddenly the dog before you is normal again, panting happily at you. You can feel it already, your pulse seems to quicken and the light on the shed flicks off.

You turn quickly to look at it and it turns back on. Motion sensitive, you tell yourself, stood still too long. You look to the leash around your wrist and, with a slow hand, remove the strap, and the moment it hits the grass beneath the dog seems to flicker, like snow on a television screen. Then the sound hits you, loud crackling and your hands shoot to cover your ears, but it does no good. The shape that was once the dog disappears and you move closer to the shed, leaning against the wood and hugging yourself. "It's a dream." You tell yourself and it all seems to falter, wavering before your eyes as you continually comfort yourself with those words. "It's just a dream," You say to yourself waving a hand above your head every few moments to make sure the light stays on.

That low growl of your name catches you by surprise and you feel yourself tense. "Why would you think that, Dave?" It asks and red irises flit about trying to locate the source, and you see a face. A small white face peeking around the corner of the small building and you can't hear anything else but your heart beat, pounding in your ears as the face that lacks a body seems to creep out from the shadows.

The light above you flickers and in the moment you're surrounded by total dark you feel a hand snake up your chest and rest over your throat. "Wake up, Dave." A different voice, the light turns back on and the face is close to yours staring at you and it's mouth calmly moves to the panicked words that berate your ears. "Dave wake up!" It doesn't fit.

"Look at the sky, Dave!" Everything falls around you, the face is gone, the feel of a hand on your throat vanishes and you suddenly are staring wide eyed at the stars sparkling in the night sky. You hear yourself breathing before you register that it's you, and you force your breathing to be normal before you start hyperventilating. You haven't yet grasped hold of where you are, or who the figure above you is, but you find yourself clinging to this person as you calm down.

They felt safe. The person holding you and carefully telling you that you're okay feels safe and you cling to them, your fists holding tightly to t-shirt fabric as hands stroke your back. You find yourself drifting again as they comfort you. Your breathing has returned to normal and your heart no longer pounds in your ears. You find that you're okay with nodding off here, as the dreamless sleep that greets you is welcoming and the voice that spoke to you so carefully quiets.


	4. Sometimes No

You wake early. You always do, you don't get much sleep in your profession, and adding that fact to the extra business you had to tend to during the night. You were pretty sure it'd be a hard image to get out of your head, the typically cool-as-a-cucumber Dave screaming and bawling like a child throwing a tantrum. Although, there was something to it, and you're trying to sort it out as you turn off your alarm clock and rub the sleep out of your eyes.

Your hand prods aimlessly at the bedside table until your fingers brush over your glasses. As you put them on the world becomes clear (or as clear as it can get with sleep still clouding your vision), and you go about your morning ritual, which consists of making coffee and making yourself presentable for work. All the while you're thinking about your roommate, mostly just worried about what could possibly have caused that episode last night.

There was only a small handful of things, and at the top of the probability list was simple trauma. Trauma could cause just about anything, but it just didn't quite fit.

You're still immersed in this train of thought when you're standing in the kitchen, leaning on the counter and sipping coffee, and you hear a door close down the hall. You look up from your drink and see Dave, rubbing his eyes as he sort of stumbles around the corner and immediately goes to the coffee pot.

You can't help but watch him, kind of hoping he'll give you some sort of insight as to what happened last night. You've got a feeling, though, that he either doesn't remember it, or will pretend he doesn't. The fact that he'd refused to tell you what it was you'd be dealing with made you think it may end up being the latter.

You wait, giving him a chance to wake up a little more before asking any questions. Although, you're not entirely sure how to breach the subject. How do go about asking about something like this?

'Hey, so I heard you screaming last night and so I just walked into your room and saw you flipping the fuck out, must have been a really bad dream to make a man cry that much.'

Yeah, that'd be perfect. You'd be moving back in with your dad before you knew it. You sigh to yourself, which he seems to catch and you look up to see him staring at you. Blue eyes connect with red for the briefest of moment before you force your attention back down to your mug.

"Do you remember last night?" You finally ask and you feel the mood of the room shift from the sort of comfortable silence to a much more tense atmosphere.

"I remember everything." You look up to him, and it finally clicks in your mind that he's not wearing anything but sweat pants. You don't know how you didn't notice he wasn't wearing those stupid aviators, especially with the brief eye contact.

"How much are you willing to tell me?" You finish up your drink, but can't bring yourself to put the cup aside. You were so used to having your hands occupied, with work and all, that when they were idle or empty it felt weird. "You don't have to tell me everything."

You look at him again and he's doing the same, fidgeting with the empty mug and he looks like he's thinking a lot about telling you anything. Every little bit of information helps you to help him, but if he was as embarrassed by this as he seemed then you probably wouldn't be able to get much out of him.

A bit of time passes in silence and as you check the clock you see that the two of you have been standing there for a grand twenty minutes in silence. You don't have work for another few hours, so you're in no hurry, but you don't know what his schedule is like, so you're not sure what to expect from this.

Dave mumbles something and your attention snaps to him. You kindly ask him to repeat, and speak up and he gives you the words clearly. "Night terrors." You quirk an eyebrow. Don't only children suffer from night terrors? You decide not to point it out, it's probably the reason he's so quiet about them. "They come and go, kind of. If I'm lucky I can go a week without having one."

All you can bring yourself to do is nod. You don't really know much about night terrors, other than that they're a bad dream's evil cousin. Much worse and, from what you'd seen in one movie and an episode of House, can make someone do some really stupid shit in their sleep. The worst Dave had done last night was scream and flail, but who knows what else he'd done. This was your first brush with them and if you had to guess he'd been having these much longer than the handful of weeks you knew each other.

He makes it clear he doesn't want to further dwell on it by putting his empty cup in the sink and skulking back to his room. You don't see him again for the rest of the morning and your still thinking about it when you get to work and are in your first, and favorite, patient's room. He's in the bed flipping through a book, which is good, and you'd be slightly more surprised that it was a Harry Potter book if you hadn't seen the friend in the chair next to the bed.

"Morning Tavros," You greet with a smile and both of them start, staring at you like they hadn't known you were there. "Do you read anything else, Eridan?" You look to the one in the chair who responds by promptly mumbling what you can only assume are curses to himself.

Your attention moves back to Tavros who smiles and holds up his arms, letting the book lay open in his lap. "Look I can move my arms!" He says happily and you nod, before closing the door and walking to the end of the bed.

"But." Eridan prompts and you look at him and then back to Tavros who frowns a bit then. It's probably his legs, you think and all the teenager does is point to the offending appendages. So yes, it's exactly what you were afraid of. Unable to hold back a sigh you open your mouth to speak before it closes again.

Yeah, it wasn't as bad as it could have been, but it was still pretty bad. You sigh a little, and jump into doctor mode, going about all the questions and the little tests, poking his toes with a stick all that nonsense, and he could very easily feel it, but he couldn't move them and that brought you down a few good mood notches. You give them a spiel of medical words and they both stare at you like you're an alien.

"English please." Eridan says and despite the venom in his tone you can tell he's worried about Tavros. Being around the two in public it was hard to believe they were even friends, but it was those private moments like this that you could see how it worked.

"Basically, as far as I can tell as of this moment, he can't walk. Probably never will. There's a few things we could do that will make it easier to be independent, but we'll be lucky if we can get you into a pair of crutches within a year." It's quiet then, and Eridan seems to be thinking far too much for his own good. The two weren't children, they weren't naive but Eridan seemed to let his mind work too much. Tavros on the other hand just shrugged at the news smiling a little.

"Well we won't know if we don't try." His smile was forced, very forced, to the point that it hurt your face to see it. He looked at Eridan who still looked like he was thinking and with a small nudge the older teen came back to reality, nodding in agreement like he'd heard the whole conversation. You knew he hadn't and as soon as Tavros was looking at you again he fell back into his thoughts.

It was quiet over the three of you until you heard a soft knock on the door, Eridan's brother, Cronus, sticking his head in the room, "Time to leave your girlfriend," His voice came and Eridan showed immediate distaste for the comment but stood, bidding Tavros farewell, informing him to keep the book, and leaving with his sibling.

Tavros seemed sad to see him go and you looked at the book. "Is that brand new?" You ask, a knowing smile coming over his face as he nods, still staring at the door.


	5. Does That Freak You Out?

The day is long. Almost unbearably so, and you manage to forget about Dave when you get a burn victim, an insomniac, a guy who thought it was a capitol idea to put his hand on a stove (that was turned on), a woman who didn't know she was pregnant (who was actually a woman who didn't know she was giving birth) and a teenager with a broken arm.

This last one was the least upsetting, honestly, because teenagers broke arms all the time. Or it was the least upsetting until you learned she broke it by sneaking up on her friend who promptly brought her here. Seeing her friend, you couldn't find yourself surprised that sneaking up on him had resulted in a broken limb he was fucking huge and he was, what? Fifteen? Sixteen maybe? You decided not to say anything about it, because all you could think was that he must have been working out like Arnie since he was a child. Which was wildly unhealthy for a handful of reasons.

His friend, a fourteen year old sporting cat ears sewn to a ballcap, was ridiculously calm about it, and after speaking to her parents it was more common than they were comfortable admitting. In their words 'she's more pins and plates than bones'. She didn't make a sound when the bone was set back in place and wrapped, and witnessing this first hand you could definitely see that she'd been through the process a number of times.

Whenever she was alone she was always asking for her firend, who, after hearing the name so many times, you knew was named Equius. Every time you saw him he asked if she was okay and after hearing HER name so many times you knew her name was Nepeta. The amount of worry the two carried was on opposite ends of the spectrum, while she was all smiles and 'I'm used to it' he made it seem like it was her first broken bone ever.

You were very happy when you got off work and could go home. You only made one stop on the way and it was to get something to eat and you sat in the parking lot outside the apartment building just to eat. Sure, you could have gone inside, but then you'd be back to the reality that your roommate has a problem and you're not in the mood to get back to that yet. So you savor the burger, not the healthiest choice but it was what you wanted, and take your time all the while your eyes linger on the single window that was on this side of the building. The light was on and you could vaguely make out a shadow appearing and reappearing from the side and lowering below the window and then coming back up and it was all you could do not to question what he was doing.

You could just go inside. And so that's what you decide you want to do.

It's late, you didn't get off until ten of course, so when you get to the door and can hear music playing you wonder if it's as loud as it seems. It sounds far more poppy than what who expected and when you open the door the sight catches you off guard. Your roommate's in the middle of the living room, face toward the couch in a position which you would later (due to a curious google search) learn is a yoga pose referred to as 'the scorpion' and the sight of it makes your back twinge in pain. You'r eunable too make out anything from the song

The song is far from what you expected him to listen to, on all planes of existance and as you avert your eyes from the painful looking pose you hear a soft thump before the music stops. You look again and he's sitting, leaning against the couch in a much more normal way, remote in hand and staring at you. "Does that feak you out?" He asks and all you do is nod a little. He smiles, wide, "I'll be sure to do it more often."

That son of a bitch.

* * *

 

You decide not to play the music as you get back on your forearms and return to your position, this time facing John, who seems to sqiurm at the sight of your back bending in such a way. You decide to further squick him by letting your toes touch the top of your head and he looks like he's about to faint as he hurries to busy his sight with other things. "So how was work?" You ask casually, "Your friend okay?"

You hear him mumbling something as he makes his way down the hall, and you sigh a bit, letting your feet make contact with the floor and unrolling yourself. You wait patiently for him to return, because you're kind of curious if his worries were for naught. When he finally did return he seemed hesitant to look at you until he saw you were no longer standing on your own head. He sits on the end of the couch you're not currently seated in front of and he sighs a bit, "No, not really. He's paralyzed form the waist down." you stand up, only to sit back down, but this time on the couch and you turn to face John, who's wringing his hands together.

"Stressful day?"

"When is it not stressful." It's more of a statement than a question and he chuckles a little at it.

"You make a good point." You agree, and then the two of you take turns recounting your day. As it turns out the girl who broke her arm at the restaraunt ended up with John at the hospital and you both found that hilariously coincidental. You then began talking about her friend, who you learned was named Equius, according to John, and about how no teenager should ever be that buff and be human at the same time. That conversation is short lived however, as you two both realize talking about the teenager neither of you knew was fairly weird.

Then the topic goes around back to John's friend, the paralyzed one who now has been given a name; Tavros. You recognize it, but don't think much of it, your mind is pre-occupied with John's talking to you about how he's worried the younger teen won't even be able to use crutches. The two of you do like last night and you talk until the conversation well has run dry. You realize the two of you had talked for a solid hour and a half without stopping and it's almost midnight when you decide it's time to turn in for the night. You don't have work tomorrow, but after today, what with teenagers breaking their arms and birthday parties leaving messes behind, you're tired and you crave sleep. You're also feeling particularly not-nightmare-ish this evening and when you get to your room you lie awake for another ten minutes thinking of the brightest and happiest thoughts you can muster before the darkness overtakes you and you're sleeping.

* * *

 

You watch Dave walk down the hall and go into his room and the living room is a lot quieter without him in it. You're admittedly kind of fascinated with just how much the two of you can talk. You don't head for your room, though, and you sit on the couch a little longer, basking in the silence of the apartment and just how much it already felt like hom to you. It was such a wonderful feeling.

You weren't sure how you'd settled in so quickly after living with your dad for twenty-six years, but it wasn't an unwelcome feeling, in fact you loved it. Essentially living on your own, something you probably could have done sooner, but since you had graduated and all you did now was work it seemed like the best time. Your father gave you one of his speeches about how proud he was which definitely made moving out easier. He told you that you were your own man now and you loved the feeling of being in the apartment for the first time, knowing it was your place.

You didn't even mind the roommate. You probably wouldn't have moved out as soon if you were going for your own place all alone and the added plus was that the two of you got along well. You hadn't gotten any hate vibes form Dave and even when he had said he'd do his contortionist act in the living room he was smiling like he was just messing with you.

By the time your thoughts returned to the present it was around two in the morning and you decided you were now tired enough to sleep. On your way to your room, though, you saw Dave's door hanging open and a quick peek inside saw that the room was void of it's owner.

That was disheartening. Even more-so when you opened your door and he was in your room, pressing the keys on your keyboard, even though it was turned off and no sound was coming form it he appeared to be humming some song to himself. It took you until you were behind him to realize he was humming a lullaby and for a moment you weren't sure if he was trying to freak you out or not.

The moment your fingers grazed his shoulder he went rigid and you jerked your hand back like it'd been burned. It was quiet and motionless for a moment and he slowly turned, staring at you with wide eyes. The eye contact remains for another minute before he speaks.

"He's trying to kill me."


	6. It Doesn't Hurt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Dave has a nightmare about the Frank Erwin Center.

You feel like you're going to puke. You're standing in a large empty room. There's a wall in front of you and a wall behind you. You remember coming here once as a kid, coming to see the circus. You hadn't enjoyed it then, you were so little and there were so many people milling about.

But now it was empty, at least this part of the building was. You were in the lobby type area, where there were concession stands and souvenirs. But there wasn't a soul in the room except for you. You wander around in circles for a while, but as you walk nothing changes. You notice that there are no doors to get out. None to escape the building and so you finally delve deeper into this place. Inside there are stadium seats, you see three people, all sitting next to each other on the other side of the stadium and the lights are dim except for one spot light.

In the spot light, in the center of the ring, is a clown. Juggling clubs and facing you. You can't quite see his face from the distance but you can tell he's staring at you. He looks like he just fell out of a black and white movie, everything he's wearing is black or gray or white, the only thing that kills the effect is the juggling clubs. One is green, one is red and the other is purple. His face is painted gray and white, and he's just staring at you, juggling effortlessly. You look to the people on the other side and the three of them are clapping but you don't hear a thing.

They're silhouettes as far as you can tell, but as you stare you're able to make out a man, a woman and a child. You turn to go back out but the stairwell behind you has vanished and there are only more empty seats now in it's place. You panic, only for a moment, though, as you see that the other stairwells are still in tact.

You turn to go to another, but something catches your attention.

The clown in the center has stopped juggling. And when you turn to see him the bodies of the people are lying at his feet, covered in their own blood. He's still staring at you. It's like a siren goes off in your head and it tells you you need to run. You need to get out of here, no matter what the cost.

So you run, you run for the nearest exit to the lobby and you don't care to see if the clown is following you or not. You rush down the nearest set of stairs and you're in the lobby again, and it's so much brighter than the stadium. The lights are all on, and this room feels somewhat safer but it's all so open, you're exposed, you can't run away from an insane clown in here. You run through the giant hall, looking for somewhere better to hide than this but the only escapes lead back into the middle. Surely he's out of it by now, especially if he's following you like you think he is.

You turn into one and inside the scene has reset. He's in the middle, juggling and watching you and the family is clapping noiselessly. Instead of bringing comfort it instills more fear. You try a different tactic.

You head for the family, and as you approach the silhouettes become familiar, only in shape. They look like your parents. As you get closer the mother stands and goes down the steps, which brings you pause. You watch her approach the clown and he stops his juggling, they seem to share a few words before he draws back an arm and with a splatter of red she falls to the ground. The man and the child get to their feet and start clapping again.

You can't believe what you'd just seen and you want to leave it, but next the man moves, crouching and talking to the young man and then following the steps to woman took, down to the clown. The clown repeats, and the man lies dead at his feet. You feel your blood pounding in your ears and you feel like you're going to faint as you feel a tug on your sleeve.

"It's your turn, mister." You look down to the child and he's no longer a silhouette, it's you. You when you were six, when you called everyone mister (because it's ironic). This child-version of you smiles, his front teeth missing and he looks so completely innocent. You wonder if you ever actually look that innocent. He tugs on your sleeve again and pulls you with him down the steps. You want to protest but you can't bring your body to fight the child's pull and soon you're standing next to him in front of the clown. 

The make-up on the clown's face is smeared and bloody and as you stare you seem to recognize him. It was normal for people you know to play strange parts in your dreams, but you'd never imagined Gamzee, that 'high on life' idiot cook to be starring as a killer clown in one of your nightmares. Much less a killer clown who just bashed in the skull of your six-year-old self.

He just smiles at you. "What's up motherfucker?" He says and you want to talk, you do, you have so many questions but you can't will yourself to speak, you feel like you can't control your body anymore. "Oh, so we're playing the quiet game now?" Suddenly he's yelling and it sends you back a step. "It's okay." He's quiet again, calm, "It's all good, bro." He discards the green club and reels back the red, "I promise it'll only hurt for a second!" He yells this and you manage to step back, the end of the club only coming across your nose, cracking it like a toothpick, but it doesn't hurt.

You've got control of your body again and you use it to run away and he follows you so fucking slow you know he's not going to catch you. Except, you don't really have anywhere to run. As you're distancing yourself from him you're noticing that any way out of the stadium is gone, like it was never there and when you turn around Gamzee's behind you, impossibly close in comparison to your speeds and you simply stare at him. He's not smiling like he usually does, he looks so angry and you're terrified of him because of it.

He was a hard person to piss off, so when he did get pissed it was terrifying. Someone almost always got hurt. You turn to run again and when you make you're one-eighty you're faced with a dog. A large mastiff, panting at you and wagging his tail happily. You have no way to go around the large mutt and when you turn around to face your imminent doom you don't see Gamzee anymore.

There's a face. A pure white, emotionless face, floating in the air and silently getting close to you. You can't hear anything over your heart pounding and you're sure it's about to burst out of your chest as the face comes to a stop, barely a foot from your own face. It stares and you feel cold fingertips brush over your cheek. The trail smoothly down, from your cheekbones to your jaw, then silently down your neck, fingers wrapping silently around your throat. They hold you for a moment where nothing happens, the world has gone silent around you and you're facing off with this manifestation of who the hell knows what is in your sub-conscious and it's got it's hand on your throat and it's just STARING AT YOU.

"Dave!" You hear a panicked voice, and the fingers tighten, and suddenly you can't breath. You try. God damnit you try, but you can't take in a breath as the fingers tighten even more-so and the voice calling your name gets louder.

It disappears, you hear a soft whimper as it all fades around you and you can breath again and you gasp, forcing as much air into your lungs as you can. The world turns into the balcony outside the living room of your apartment. The moon is looming over you and there are hands consoling you, gently petting your hair and rubbing your arm. The voice is quiet and comforting and insisting that you're okay and this time your mind connects John to the voice. He's here, holding you while you're having a fucking mental breakdown and insisting that you're okay.

You do like you did before and you cling to him, holding him tightly against you as you breath, your sharp and panicked intakes of air making your throat and lungs burn. He presses something over your mouth and tells you to breath and you realize you're hyperventilating and you feel so fucking pathetic as you try to breath like a normal person into the bag, not this fucked up thing you apparently are.

He holds onto you as you calm, slowly but surely and you look at him. You feel like you need to say something, and you mumble unintelligible nonsense before fading back into sleep.


	7. Helpless

You wake with a raging headache. Your first thought when you wake up in your room of your own will is that you're glad you don't have work today. You don't think you'd be able to face Gamzee after that particular nightmare.

The image of the usually care-free guy like that was probably something you'd never forget. It'd be amazing if you were ever able to look at him again. You don't get up yet. You lay in your bed and stare at the wall for a while, trying to figure out what the hell was wrong with you.

These nightmares were on the verge of ruining your relationships, they were officially becoming a bigger problem than just making you wake up outside.

You're about to roll over to get up, but you're held in place by an arm and you look down to the tan limb (realizing just how god awfully pale you are right now), and at first you're not sure what to think of it.

You feel like shit for him having to put up with you, the feeling in your stomach may actually be guilt. Or wait... It may be something else.

You decide not to consider your sleeping roommate and shove his arm off of you just in time for you to make it to the bathroom and yell groceries.

You couldn't even remember the last time you were sick enough to actually puke, it had to be when you were seventeen and got wasted for the first time or something. Thinking about that only makes it worse and by the time the contents of your stomach have evacuated, you're shaking and crying and you feel so stupid. That's been happening a lot lately, the feeling stupid thing. You just feel all kinds of negative thoughts about yourself and it probably started around when you moved out.

Above it all you feel helpless. Scared.

You feel something cold on your neck and hear John, mumbling reassuring words to you as he gently pulls you to your feet. He cleans off your face, takes the cold rag off your neck, placing it in your hand and sending you to your bed. You don't have the energy to argue, and he is a doctor, so you just do what he tells you to and you lie in your bed. You stare at the ceiling and place the rag on your forehead.

You slip out of consciousness and by the time you wake up next it's because John is quietly ushering you back to reality and offering you a cup of apple juice. He insists you sip, don't gulp and you do just that, quietly drinking the juice as your brain somewhat catches up with your body.

"I think I'm sick." You say, smiling at him a little. He seems to let out a weak laugh, nodding a bit. He doesn't say anything though, and just sits while you drink your juice. You set it on the bedside table and he leaves, coming back soon with a couple of crackers. He tells you to eat them slowly, and you bite off a corner, setting the rest of the snack on the table.

He tells you that you just drink juice and eat crackers today, watch some tv, which you will definitely do, and then he leaves for work.

You do as the doctor says, you nibble crackers, sip juice and watch television. You text your bro some, he started the conversation by sending a message that merely read 'nightmare' with a couple question marks.

Dave: yeah last night and night before

Bro: And?

Dave: what do you want me to say theyre getting better? the face and the dog every time no different than when i was five bro

Bro: Calm your tits i was just asking.

Dave: well okay then im just gonna go back to being sick alone now bye

Bro: You do that dave

Not exactly the most heartfelt conversation you and him had ever had, and you set your phone by your juice, taking a quick sip and laying down to go back to sleep.

The next time you wake up it's voices, one is John's but the other one you don't recognize, and you're curious. He'll probably tell you to go back to bed as soon as you get out there, but there's nothing stopping you from getting a quick peek.

So you shuffle out of your room and down the short hallway and at the end of the hall you can see a head hanging off the edge of the couch, multicolored eyes staring at nothing in particular until the floor beneath you made a croaking noise. The eyes snapped to you and the head turned over, blonde hair dropping to cover the eyes and the guy waved like an idiot at you.

You don't even know who this guy is and as he starts saying hi to you over and over again you recognize his voice as the unknown one.

"Is Dave awake?" You hear John's voice and soon he sticks his head around the corner, the blonde has quieted and is now just grinning at you. Sorry, did he wake you up?" He makes a little gesture toward the blonde and you sort of nod and shrug at the same time. He apologizes a little as you finally walk into the living room and see another person on the couch.

You feel like you recognize him, but you're not sure where to place him in your mind. You note the puff of thick black hair and the fact that he just stares at you with a pair of the darkest blue eyes you'd ever seen. "This is Kurloz and Mituna. Kurloz was a patient of mine a few months ago, and we sort of hit it off." He nodded a little.

You look the two over, looking from Mituna, the blond with the goofy grin and his tongue sticking out, and then to John, hoping for some sort of explanation. "Brain damage." He mumbles and you nod a tiny bit and then look to Kurloz and to John again. "Elective mute.” You just kind of nod before waving at them. Mituna waves back and Kurloz just sort of nods at you.

“I’m going back to sleep.” You say but before you can head on your way, Kurloz waves for you to come to him.

Hesitant, you do it, and he begins signing at you. You don’t know a lot of sign language. You know the alphabet kind of, and after a moment he seems to get this and he finger spells ‘Strider’, a curious look on his face. You just nod a little bit and he point to himself, spelling out ‘Makara’ and then ‘Gamzee is my brother’ and you feel your stomach drop out of your torso.

You pause nodding a little, forcing a look that says “oh that is interesting” to come across your face. “Oh, that’s. Neat. Small world.” You shrug a little and take a few steps back, pointing down the hall and leaving the room before Mituna’s loudly bid you goodbye.

The entire point of getting the roommate was so that none of your friends would find out about your nightmares, and it turns out your roommate is friend’s with your friend’s older brother. Fan-fucking-tastic. You lean on the now closed door and force yourself to think of this logically. It’s okay, you try to convince yourself, at least it’s a fucking mute that he’s friends with. Heaven forbid he be friend’s with Karkat’s older brother. Kankri was such a fucking loudmouth, he’d call Karkat right in front of you just to tell him all about it.

You force yourself to take a deep breath. It’s okay. It’s no big deal. Although you feel like it’s a big deal, information travels like diseases. You continue forcing yourself to breath normally, although the reason’s shifted to the fact that you can feel your stomach roiling and you really don’t think it could get any worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mituna and Kurloz weren't detrimentally important except to show you that HEY IT'S A SMALL WORLD, and that there are people that they both know but don't know they both know.


	8. That Line Is So Cheesy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter.

You clock in to work bright and early, nine thirty on a Sunday morning. You don't look forward to the crowd Sundays bring, it always starts out really nice and then it'd explode around eleven thirty, people getting out of church, and coming to the quaint little restaurant.

It's been a couple months since your nightmare starring Gamzee. It took a few weeks, but you're finally able to look at him again and he's none the wiser. Karkat's stopped bitching about how shitty Gamzee is as a roommate, and you wouldn't swear to it, but you're pretty sure they started sleeping together or something. Ever since you've known Karkat he's been known to become considerably less bitchy when he gets laid. You don't want to pry, you're just pretty sure you know what's going down.

You check your watch and breathe a small sigh, watching a couple come in the door. The host, Eridan, goes about his job, grabs their menus, takes them to a table and then goes to you, the cheerful expression on his face faded the moment he was out of eye shot of the couple. He gives off vibes that he hates his job, but he's just kind of a bitchy teenager. He offers you a weak smile and point to the table, "That one's yours." He says simply and you nod, heading toward your first table.

The two girls sitting there are smiling sweetly at each other. "Good morning ladies." You say, putting on your best million dollar smile and they both look to you smiling as well. "What can I get you ladies to drink? Some tea, coffee, soda, whatever you like." They seem to share a look, before the smaller of the two, a petite girl with platinum blonde hair and bright green eyes, just smiles at you.

"Coffee for her, and I'd like a Dr. Pepper." The other, also blonde, but a much darker blonde, seems to groan a little.

"Do I have to have coffee?" She whines and the other girl only nods.

You nod and look between them before heading off, noting that this was an interesting start to your day.

You're about halfway through your shift when Karkat comes in. He's got the day off, so you're not entirely sure why he's bothering to come here, for any reason, really. You happen to be on your break when he comes in and you're sitting at a table eating some Texas cheese fries when he sits at the table across from you. You share tiny nods of acknowledgement and you take a break from eating to ask him of his presence. "What the hell are you here for?" Yeah, that probably could have been worded better.

"Gamzee asked me to come in, fuck if I know why. He's off in his own little world all the damn time, it's a miracle I can get anything out of him at all." You just wait a minute, and he seems to think over his words, "And now the asshole's got me talking about miracles." He pinches the bridge of his nose.

"I don't think we have to worry until you start with the face paint." You say in an attempt to somewhat reassure him, but all you get in return is an exasperated sigh. It's quiet for a while and you nibble a few more fries before deciding that you just have to know.

"So are you fucking him, or what?"

He chokes on the breath he's breathing in and gives you a look like you just lobbed off your own balls right in front of him. "What the everloving fuck gave you that idea?" He sounds embarrassed, and it's the final little note that says, yes, Karkat is sleeping with his roommate. Now whether they're considered a couple or not, well that remains to be seen.

"You're less pissy lately. You look at him a lot more than before and you definitely don't yell as much, especially not to him." You pause as he seems like he's coming up with an excuse. "That and he told me." That one was a lie, but if this worked out how you wanted it to-

"I told that dumbass not to tell anyone." He hissed.

Bingo.

"He didn't tell me." You say and if looks could kill you'd drop dead on the spot. You nod to him, take your dishes to the back and return to work.

Karkat sits at the table a little while longer before you see Gamzee come out and mack him right in front of everyone. Karkat verbally shows his annoyance, Gamzee just sort of smiles, throws him over his shoulder and carries him out the door. You decide not to dwell on what that could have been all about.

You return home a handful of hours later, John appears to be asleep on the couch. He'd left yesterday around noon and you didn't see him for the rest of the night. You didn't find yourself awake outside, though, but he wasn't here this morning so he must have been at the hospital all night. He looks to peaceful, crashed out on the couch.

Over the time that you've been living with him, despite how dorky he can be, despite his horrid taste in Nic Cage flicks, you've grown to like him. Which wouldn't be a problem if you hadn't grown to LIKE him. You found that he was on the receiving end of many of your dreamy stares and he'd made a few appearances up in fantasy-land, on those rare nights when you don't have nightmares about pallid faces trying to kill you.

It made seeing him asleep on the couch almost uncomfortable. You're just staring at his ass and you feel like you're violating him. But it's such a nice ass, you tell yourself, and make your way to the couch, gently nudging his shoulder and he just sort of grunted in acknowledgement of your presence. "Is the couch comfortable?" You ask and he makes a grunt that kind of sounds like a yes, but you're not sure. You kind of tug on his arm a little and he grunts a little more, sitting up and glaring at you.

"Long day?" You ask and he sits up nodding and rubbing at his eyes. You tug on his hand and he stands, stumbling with you down the hall to his room. He flops onto the bed, and gives your arm a harsh pull. You fall next to him and he groans a little. You lie there for a few minutes, and he seems to fall back asleep.

He groans when you start to move and so you just sort of lie there, his hand on your wrist. Not even holding it, but just sort of lying there. But you'd move a little and he'd make a noise of protest.

You're not entirely sure when you drift off, but when you wake up a few hours later the first thing you notice is that you're really warm. It's a nice warm, though, it's very comfortable. You're bleary and your brain is trying to process why exactly you're so warm. It takes a moment but you gather that you're latched onto your roommate. He's still asleep, breathing quietly, which is a surprise you were pretty sure he'd snore or something.

You manage to put enough space in between your body and his and look up to his very peaceful face. He must be having a pleasant dream, judging by the goofy smile he currently sports. You don't know how long you watch him, but it's apparently long enough for him to finish his sleep and wake up. He does, slowly, groggily, he looks down at you and lets go, rolling onto his back and rubbing sleep from his eyes. "Do I even want to know?" He mumbles and oh good gracious he's set himself up so perfectly.

"You're a cuddler." Is all you say as you sit up, stretching out the unexpected nap. He lets out a small groan and you chuckle a little. "You crashed on the couch, I managed to get you awake enough to get you in here and then you didn't let me leave." Well there was a good opportunity to fuck with him, but you chose to leave it be.

He kind of chuckles and nods, "Yeah, sorry about that."

"So how was work?" You ask and he looks from you to the floor a couple times before shrugging. "Don't want to talk about it?" He kind of nods a little and you don't push it any further. You stand up and leave, heading to your room to finally change out of your work clothes.

You go about your normal routine for the next few hours (fucking around on the computer, playing video games) and he doesn't leave his room. Whatever happened at work must have been pretty serious he usually was this carefree dork who was usually making dinner right now. You check the time and nod to yourself. Spot on, Strider.

You decide that luring him out with the delicious smell of food will be a wonderful idea. And halfway through burning every thing in the apartment it works. He comes out, looking just as tired as before, but now he's staring at you like your crazy, while you have resorted to microwaving some ravioli.

"How did you live on your own?" He asks and you look form the microwave to him and then back to the microwave again.

"Like this." You say and point to it. He sighs and sort of rolls his eyes, sitting on the counter next to the sink. "You've been awfully antisocial today." You point out. "I'm used to you being a thirteen year old girl with all the gossip." He rolls his eyes at you, but you catch the hint of a smile.

"I lost a patient. She was really nice." The smile is gone and you frown a bit too. "It was kind of sweet, her husband was there for her all day. She... Was a really nice lady." He lets out a long sigh and the microwave beeps but you don't move to get your food. "I guess I can't really tell you too much, with doctor-patient confidentiality and all, but... She's going to be missed." He kind of nods and you just kind of nod in return.

It's kind of interesting to see him getting upset over the stranger. You kind of felt bad that he had to go through that, but before you could offer some sort of reassurance he spoke again. "I knew the risks of the job when I took it." He gives a weak smile in response.

You open your arms, offering a hug or something lame like that. He stared at you for a moment, that goofy smile you've come to like coming across his face as he gets off the counter and closes the distance between the two of you.

This isn't a bro-hug, you can't help but think, this like a legit, comforting hug. You don't think you've ever given a legit comforting hug before. It felt kind of good. It was also lasting a lot longer than you expected it to. Do comforting hugs always last this long? Holy shit he's just, like hugging you and he's totally cool about it. Is he that much of a dweeb or does he like you? Or is he comfortable enough that hugging you for this long doesn't bother him.

Your mind is racing as the hug lingers, and you don't know how long it is before he seems to snap back into reality and jerk away form you. He apologizes and you insist that it's fine. "You're all outta hugs for like the next month, consider your hug quota maxed to the top." He just laughs at you.

You're shades over heels for this dork.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was after this chapter that I realized just how much I literally despise Gamzee. So no more Gamzee. Like ever.


	9. Real Soap Operas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Eridan's a gossipy bitch and Dave throws a fit.

You wake up late this morning. In the handful of months you've lived with Dave you've probably had a good three days off, this day gloriously being one of them. You knew what you were going to do today.

Four words.

Nic Cage movie marathon.

You get through Ghost Rider and both National Treasure movies, you're half-way through Kick-Ass when you finally get disturbed, with a text from Eridan asking if he can come over and tell you about something that happened at work. Normally you don't openly invite teenagers to your home, but he's the exception, you suppose.

You used to baby-sit him, back when he was a little kid, you two bonded rather fast and actually became fairly fast friends. By the time he was too old to be watched over he stopped referring to you as his baby-sitter, started referring to you as his friend, and you two have just magically stayed friends.

He mostly comes to you to bitch and moan about his family or other friends but you put up with it because he's easy to cheer up, and once he's cheered up he gives you all the gossip about his co-workers. You were never one for gossip, but the things that happen at the retaraunt he works at are just too interesting not to hear. There are a couple guys who he apparently doesn't like to the point he refuses to say their names unless absolutely necessary.

It's like a soap opera in that work-place and you love to hear every bit of it.

It keeps you from watching real soap operas at least.

* * *

 

You're sitting upside down on the couch watching Con Air when there's a knock at the door. "Come in!" You call simply and the door opens not a moment later, the teen stepped in and wasted no time dropping onto the empty couch next to you.

"Best mental breakdow-wn in the history of my w-workplace." He says immediately and you sit up, turning yourself upright and quirking an eyebrow at him.

"Was it Gamzee again? Because I don't think anything can top dumping hot grease on a guy." He shakes his head quickly, waving a hand.

"Not Gamzee, he's been so chill since he started screw-wing around w-with Karkat." He smiles, "No, no, w-we're talking full-scale, give the entire place the bird kind of mental breakdow-wn." He holds up his hands like he's about to go into the story but the front door opens again and you don't bother looking because you know who it is.

Eridan on the other hand, stops and stares in the direction of the door. His hands drop slightly and you see his eyes flicker between you and Dave before you finally look over your shoulder at him. He looks more tired than usual. You're still not sure why he has Eridan's attention and then you hear the teenager burst out laughing.

You can't quite read Dave's expression behind the shades but judging by how the miscles in his face tensed he's not happy. At all. Why, you're not sure. He storms down the hallway, cursing under his breath and you hear the door slam. Eridan's still laughing and you turn to him with questioning eyes and he holds up a hand, imploring you to wait for him to catch his breath.

It takes a minute but he finally takes that final breath and points down the hall. "Shades McCoolkid down there snapped and quit today." He says, pointing in the general direction of Dave's room with his thumb.

You feel your eyebrows jump up and you look down the hall and then back at him. "Mr. Pokerface flipped his lid?" He nods simply. "The guy spilled boiling hot water on his stomach and didn't bat an eyelash and you're saying he lost his shit?" He nods again, a big smile on his face. "Color me interested," You say, folding your hands together.

He smiles, waving his hands a tiny bit, "I didn't catch a lot of it, I w-was at the host stand w-when it happened but I heard a lot of yelling and ev-verything in the dining room got really quiet because ev-veryone w-was listening. I know for sure Dav-ve was yelling and I think the other might hav-ve been our manager Rick, but you'd think w-we w-were on a ship w-with sailors." He chuckles a little, "But he comes sotrmin' outta the kitchen, gives the entire room the middle finger, yells that he fuckin' quits and storms out."

You find all of this very interesting, mostly you're just wondering what could have possibly made Dave that angry. It was so unlike the stoic cool-guy to let pretty much anything get to him. "And you have no idea what happened?"

He shook his head slowly, "I nev-ver go back there, and it happened right before the lunch rush, so I nev-ver got a chance to ask anyone. My guess is as good as yours. Maybe he'll tell you." He shrugged.

He'd been in a ridiculously good mood yesterday, it must have been something pretty bad to set him off. You hum a little in thought, and decide it'd be best to let him cool off before you go questioning him. You sit and talk with Eridan for another hour and a half before he has to head home, and even after that you give it another hour before you're knocking on Strider's door.

You don't get a 'come in', but you don't get a 'fuck off' either, so you knock again, only to be ignored more. You dare to twist the knob, opening it just enough to stick your head in the room. He's sat at his computer, his headphones on and the music turned up to the point that if you knew the words you could sing along.

You find that you stand there and do nothing long enough for a few songs to pass, none of which you recognize. He doesn't notice you're there and by the looks of it he's justscrolling through some website that never seems to end. You don't know what to do.

You decide you're going to try and do like you do with your patients, approach slowly, don't startle them, talk softly, kind and caring bullshit like that.

You close the distance across the room, placing a hand on his shoulder. He jumps out of his skin and turns to face you with wide eyes. He tugs the headphones out of his ears and levels a glare at you. "I'm not going to talk about what happened at work today." He says and you're told purely by his tone that this is a final decision. There's no way you could push him to tell you. But by god are you curious as all hell.

"Not even a little bit?" You try, and he makes a face like he's thinking about it.

"I flipped a tit and gave the finger to a room full of people who just got out of church." He says simply, "We're not going to talk about it because there's really nothign to talk about." Bullshit! "What we should talk abotu though, is how the fuck I never knew you before I needed a roommate, because for some reason you're all buddy-buddy with all these assholes I know." He throws his hands up before they drop back down to his lap. "I don't even know why I'm mad about it, just what the hell?"

"How am I supposed to know? I didn't know you happened to be the friend of one of my old patient's younger brother, I didn't know you were a coworker of a bitchy teenager I used to watch for like two bucks and hour, and I sure as hell didn't know you were my friend Rose's 'weird rap friend', her words, not mine. It's a small fucking world, Dave, crap happens." He tilts his head toward you, and you can't tell how he's looking at you through stupid aviator shades, but the chances of it being a negative look makes you fidget in your place.

He throws his arms up again and with a loud thud his elbow hits the desk, his forehead falling into his palm. "It's a small fucking world Dave." He says to himself, a mocking tone as he quotes you. "I don't even know why I'm mad and it's pissing me off." He mumbles and then with a small wave of his hand he shoos you away.

You get the urge to protest, to insist that the conversation progress further but he doesn't seem like he's going to talk as he replaces the headphones in his ears and goes back to ignoring you.

It takes a bit of effort but you finally get yourself to leave.


	10. Things You Remember Perfectly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We experience the night terrors form John's perspective.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So real quick, before you go and just all up and read a chapter, there's some shit I need to explain. So there's some blood and shit in this chapter, if shit like cuts on arms, hands feet or faces freaks you the fuck out I suggest you skip this chapter, I will give a quick little summary at the end for you.

There are very few things you remember perfectly. Few things you think of and you know every detail. Your first kiss. Was it a girl or a boy? Blonde or brunette? Ginger? Or was it that goth chick from medical school?

Optimus Prime's speech from the beginning of Transformers 2? "Earth. Birthplace of the human race, a species much like our own. Capable of great compassion... and great violence. For in our quest to protect the humans, a deeper revelation dawns; our worlds have met before. For the last two years, an advanced team of new Autobots has taken refuge here under my command. Together, we form an alliance with the humans, a secret but brave squad of soldiers. A classified strike team called NEST. We hunt for what remains of our Decepticon foes, hiding in different countries around the globe."

Declaration of independence? Doesn't it start with "We the people?"

There are very few things you remember perfectly.

You're pretty sure the night your roommate tried to shank you will be burned into the tissues of your brain for all of the foreseeable future.

You're woken by the sound of wood and then metal hitting the tile floor of the kitchen. After Dave had stormed to his room and, essentially, told you to piss off you hadn't seen him, and ended up going to bed early. You passed out fast and when you woke up to the sound of ruckus and checked the clock it had been a grand hour and a half since you passed out. You don't want to go out and find out what happened. You don't want to get up. You want it to just be a burglar, he can steal your computer you don't give a shit. You just don't want it to be Dave.

He's not that bad when he's sleep-walking, having his night terrors. Ninety percent of the time he doesn't even know where he is. You'll say 'hey why the fuck are you in the kitchen' and he'll say 'dude where the fuck do you think we are' and then proceed to walk into the fridge.

He's just kind of tiring. He's hard to wake up. You usually have to drag him outside and he'll fight you every second. He refuses to talk about it during the day, but you've actually managed to get stuff out of him while he is sleep-walking, while he's calm. Two things you have gotten out of him, really. The white face is trying to kill him, and the dog is just there to keep him distracted while the face sneaks up on him. In the morning, when he wakes up he doesn't remember. He remembers the dream, he remembers when he wakes up and you manage to rock him back to sleep, but he doesn't remember how much you have gotten out of him.

It's actually how you found out he's got a raging heart-on for you. In his dream apparently you were an item or something and when you came to tend to his sleep-walking self he was still in dream land. Lovey-dovey hand holding, a smooch on the cheek and a borderline unhealthy amount of shaking he woke and was embarrassed. Because of the dream. Not because he knows he actually did it to you. 

Tonight, however. You don't want to deal with him. You wake yourself anyways. Climb out of bed, and walk out of your door.

The lights are all off, and you feel along the wall as you walk down the short hall and into the living room. It's gotten quiet aside from the tiny shuffling sound mixed with metal scraping on the floor. You wonder what he could have gotten himself up to as your round the corner and flick on the kitchen light.

The sight that meets you is redder than you would have expected. It's mostly on the floor, but there's some on his hands, in his hair, and he looks paler than normal. On the floor is every kitchen utensils in the damn apartment, forks, knives, pizza cutter, every sharp object you or him own. Clutched in his hand, by the blade, not the handle, is a knife that's digging and cutting into skin.

You freeze when you see him, standing on the pile of sharp objects and pointing the handle of a tightly gripped knife at you. His feet are probably cut to shit, his hands and arms aren't much better. You decide not to focus on the fact that your kitchen's gonna look like a murder scene once you get him out of it. You've dropped into defense mode, holding up for hands in case he comes at you.

He stands still for the longest time. You get a few steps closer and he just stares at you with the widest eyes you'd ever seen on him. He doesn't move as you reach for him, but the moment your fingers make contact with his shoulder he drops to the floor, scrambling away from you and shaking in a way that reminds you of a seizure, but less intense.

He does manage to give himself a few more cuts on the way, however. You hate the extra moment it takes you to get over the weapons without hurting yourself, but when you crouch next to him unscathed you know it was worth it. You grab a hold of his shoulders and the sound he makes scares you. If you were in the apartment over you'd think YOU had just stabbed HIM. And your mind very briefly worries that someone heard him and is planning on calling the cops.

It's nights like these that remind you how fast your reflexes are, he opens his mouth to scream something at you and you're just fast enough to muffle it with your hand. He fights you the entire time and you manage to avoid getting bludgeoned by the knife handle, but of course, as it misses you, it hits the wall and the blade cuts through his hand once more. The knife, however, does fall to the ground and you take the opportunity to pin the bleeding hand to the floor.

You haven't got the foggiest idea how you're going to get him outside. You'd tried many things to wake him up but all that seems to work is taking him outside and telling him to look at the sky. It's a technique that worked for one of your younger cousins, when the both of you were kids. She'd had them for a few months and that was how you woke her up, and that was how you woke Dave up.

But with one hand keeping him from waking the neighbors and the other currently in the process of getting covered in blood you don't know how you'll get him outside. He continues, however, to flail his limbs for only a moment longer before seemingly going limp on the floor. You take a slow breath, and he stares at you with wide, terrified eyes.

All it does is make you feel guilty. You feel guilty that you can't help him. You feel horrible that he's terrified of you most nights. You're pretty sure you're that face right now. The one these nightmares of his center around. You then stop feeling guilty, as you're pulled from your mind back into the moment by a sharp pain along your cheek.

You release his hand, and grab your face, taking an extra moment to realize he _cut you_. He actually swung a knife at you.

You decide not to worry about him waking the neighbors and tap into that bullshit fighting lessons your sister gave you when you two were little. And by fighting lessons you mean all those times she beat the crap out of you just to prove a point.

Your release his mouth, grab the hand with the knife and twist. The weapons falls to the ground, which is good, slightly less good is the curse he yells as you go about your disarming method. He fights you as you try to pick him up, and your attempt to carry him bridal style ends with your arms wrapped around his torso and his legs flailing as you carry him across the kitchen, across the living room and to the door that leads to the balcony.

It's a chore to get open, especially with a grown man fighting against you holding him, but you manage to get it open and have to pin him to the concrete and yell his name a number of times. He stops flailing and the fear in his eyes fades to more of a confusion than anything as you remove yourself from him and sit him up.

"Welcome back," You say, tired as all fuck, "I have to take you to the hospital, okay, you decided to turn yourself into confetti tonight." He grumbles something as you pick him up again, this time he's not fighting you.

You get him to the hospital, and then get to have the joy of explaining to a nurse, three doctors and a surgeon, what happened and that, no, you did not do it to him. He's out cold as they take him off to get his hands and feet stitched and you sit with a very loud, very exasperated sigh in the waiting room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So for those too squeamish to read, John hears Dave bumping around in the middle of the night, goes to find him in the kitchen standing on a pile of knives, covered in cuts on his feet arms and hands, he tries to wake Dave up, in response Dave cuts him with a knife, Dave wakes up John takes him to the hospital, the end.


	11. Antiseptics And Cleanliness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay Bro!

You're roused by the stench of antiseptics and cleanliness. It all smells too sterile to be your apartment. You don't want to wake up, because as you're coming to reality the edges of your senses flare with excruciating pain. You don't remember much of last night. You remember trying to fight back, in your dream at least. You remember John with a cut on his face. It's all blurry. So you finally open your eyes, seeing the clean hospital room that surrounds you, and the pain in your hands and feet flares.

You don't fully realize what's going on, and you grope around next to you, along the side of the hospital bed. You had never been in one yourself, but your mother had, quite a few times, and you knew a thing or two. It takes a moment and your hand and forearms ache as you move them but you grab hold of a chord and pull it into your line of sight so you can make sure it is the correct one.

With a small "Yes," of success you press the small button, dosing yourself with some morphine and sighing in satisfaction as the pain ebbs away. You don't really like how you knew that. You being a little kid and sitting in a hospital room, holding onto the chord and staring with wide eyes at your mom. Sometimes she'd say “Press that button for me sweety.” And you’d be the obedient child and press it for your mother.

Of course, at the time you didn’t know what it was. All you knew was that it made your mom happier. It made her feel better. It was when you were eight, you think, that Bro just told you what was really happening and you didn’t like it, but whenever she asked you to press the button you still did it because it made the pain go away.

And “No eight year old in their right mind wants their mommy to be in pain.” Is what you always told Bro when he asked you about it.

You remember then why you hate hospitals so much. They were a bad place. You were never happy when you were in one.

Reality takes your hand and pulls you back with the closing of a door and a familiar face frowning at you. It’s strange to you, seeing him in his doctor clothes (scrubs you believe is the proper term) you’re so used to seeing him in normal clothes. “Good morning.” He greets. “I had to pull a few strings, but I managed to convince Wrenfield to give you to me.” He smiles at you and for some reason you smile back. “So how are you, now that you’re awake and can tell me all about it.”

You don’t try to think about it, about how depressing hospitals are to you, so you stick with a sort of ‘I’m fine’. “I’m all kinds of good right now. Only thing that could make this better is if I knew what the fuck happened.” You hold up your bandaged hands and quirk an eyebrow (which, to your dismay, is not barely seen over your typical aviators).

“You decided to put all of the sharp kitchen utensils on the floor and tap dance on them.” He says with a small nod, that is accompanied by the twitchiest frown ever. You know a forced smile when you see one. This bitch is forcing that smile something fierce.

“Doesn’t explain my hands.” You say holding them up and wiggling your fingers, which sends a wave of ache up your arms and down your back. “Or your face.” You point to the bandage across his cheek, hiding what you assume is the cut you saw last night.

This time the smile vanishes, and he just frowns. “Tell me what happened in the dream.” He requests, sitting on the edge of the bed near your bandaged feet.

You really don't want to tell him about it. You're in a situation, however, where he's the doctor. He needs to know all these things to help you, you suppose.

You can't bring yourself to say anything for the first few minutes, and he just sits there, patiently waiting for you to speak. You stare at your hand, trying to figure out the easiest way to say it. "I was back home. It was different though, it was off, I can't pinpoint why, but it was. It's... Weird and I don't want to talk about it."

"You can either tell me about it, or you can tell Dr. Bruce, and I'm pretty sure you'd prefer a friend to know."

"Not exactly."

John quirks an eyebrow, before it falls back into place and he just sighs. "Is there anyone you will talk to?" You simply shake your head. "What about your brother?" You hesitate but find it in yourself to nod.

When this shit started you told him everything (not mentioning the fact he threatened you when you tried to keep quiet) so he knew all your nightmares inside and out. Somwhere you think he knows exactly what's wrong, when you mention some recurring detail he nods like he knows something you're too dense to see. It's strange because you never pegged him as being exceptionally smart. You think he may talk to Rose too much.

You still look back and regret introducing them.

* * *

 

One phone call and four hours later the bastard is sitting in the char next to you as John explains to him what happened. You're kind of weirded out hearing him talk about you like you're not there. You suppose he's in the zone or whatever, the Doctor Zone. He's not your friend right now, he's your doctor and hes explaining your fucked up-ness to your older brother who puts on an interested facade just long enough for John to explain, and then leave the room, supposedly to tend to other sick people.

Bro doesn't say anything for a while, just sits in the chair, looking between you and his hands, which are folded together on his lap. You think he's waiting for you. He's patiently waiting for you to break the silence like all the other times he guilted you into sharing what goes on in your head.

But you refuse this time. You sit and stare at the sheets across your legs, hugging yourself despite the protest your hands offer. You don't reach for the morphine, not wanting to move and break the spell of you two not doing anything. The only thing the scene was missing was a television playing piece of shit sitcoms and your brother making off-handed comments about how they could have done such-and-such a thing better.

You know he's going to be the one to move first, so when he stands you are not surprised. You are surprised and express this vocally, when he shoves you to the side, sits on the bed and pulls you into his lap. He hugs you to his chest and with the most obnoxiously motherly tone the man is likely able to muster he says; "Now Dave, tell your big brother all about your problems."

He's such a dick.

You'd shove him away from you, but the stitching hurts enough already without you adding that to the mix. Instead you go for the morphine, dosing yourself and replacing the chord with a small huff.

You still refuse to talk, even though this weird cuddling is making you s fuckton uncomfortable. You know that if you tell him he'll piss off and leave you alone but fuck that noise, this is personal shit.

Part of your mind argues that you enjoy the weird cuddling. The part that makes you hug him does, at least. The part that wants to sock him in the jaw disagrees vehemontly, reminding you that you have a roommate who, despite being in a coma, you're pretty sure knows everything that's going down around him.

It takes another hour of his obnoxious cuddling before you finally speak, and all you utter are a few words.

"Everyone was dead." You say and he leans back, looking at you like he can't believe you've even just spoken. He adjust so he can face you better and makes a small circular motion with his hands, encouraging you to continue.

"I was at the place, the little house with the shed and everyone was there. They were all just... Dead." You make a nonsense gesture with your hand, but he seems to get it, again, with the hand motion. "You, Rose, Karkat, John." You sigh a little, leaning into him a little more despite one half of your mind's protest to this brotherly-love crap, "Mom and Dad."

This is where he reacts, tensing significantly. Not many things got to him but mentions of your parents always did. He avoided the subject almost as much as you did, but he asked you to continue anyways.

You explain how everyone seems to have died, your mother and father being skipped over. They died in your dream how they died in real life, very depressing and you care not go into it. You tell your brother how he was shish kabobed on his own souvenir katana from a business trip long past. Once everything is out you feel more worn out than before, hating how sharing is such an emotional chore for you.

You were hardened at a young age, unfortunately. Emotions were baggage. They weren't worth the trouble.

Bro finally gets out of the bed, tells you to get some rest and that he's staying in town until you're better. He leaves to get John and you're asleep before your doctor/friend/roommate arrives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: There's a self-insert, GUESS WHICH ONE IT IS!


	12. Obviously Exposed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rose is a sassy-pants.

You know that feeling like you do is stupid. You are fully aware that feeling like the world knows and is breathing down your back over something you are not in control of is stupid. Pure dumbassery.

But it's a strong feeling.

Especially now, in the hospital, where every dumbass with a degree in psychology wants to pick at your brain and has free access to everything John knows, and since you last spoke to your brother, apparently everything he knows too.

You feel exposed; like someone stripped you of everything and shoved you onto a stage with a spot light and a bright neon sign that reads 'This is a full grown man who has child issues'.

'Child issues'.

When you referred to them as that John tried to joke around by suggesting he transfer you to pediatrics.

It wasn't funny.

But you laughed, because you knew he was feeling as weird about all of this as you were. Because not only did you have to tell them what happens in your nightmares, John has to tell them what you do whilst having the damn things and shit you've done a lot of screaming and crying apparently. There was one time you just climbed into bed with John for half an hour before waking up yourself and falling asleep again, still in bed with John. There was once when you nearly jumped out the window. One time he found you in the closet, clinging to a box of macaroni like your life depended on it.

John lists these nights and meanwhile you feel like they're stealing more of your defenses. It vaguely feels like peeling back layers of skin and they're getting down into your muscles and it almost makes you physically ill thinking about.

You hate hospitals. You hate people poking and prodding at you with needles and pens and you hate the sound of people writing shit while you talk and you feel like your head might explode but you keep yourself contained. You keep all of this hidden behind your shades, which John was kind enough to bring to you between shifts. You keep a straight face as you make off-handed comments about how the therapist's handwriting is wretched. You're the calmest of calms when they recommend you see a psychologist and you give them a colorful recommendation of where they can shove their grotesque melon head.

You also do not completely lose your shit when playing card games with John while he's off the clock.

You don't let out all your anger on a motherfucking innocent table that had nothing to do with John's ability to magically guess which cards you have. You most certainly DO NOT try to take it out on him. And no. You were not fucking sedated because you tried to attack someone.

* * *

 

It's a good week later when they finally remove the stitches, but you're kept in the hospital regardless, because too much walking or any sort of actvity could reopen a wound. Heaven forbid you make them stitch you up again.

You spend a surprising amount of time just looking at your hands. Trying to figure out how the fuck you did tht to yourself, sleep-walking or not, you have no clue. John comes and checks on you, but after the incident with the card table he doesn't stay around to chat anymore.

You couldn't remember the last time you actually felt lonely.

You wonder if it felt the same then as it feels now.

One thing you have prided yourself on, since your father lept off the mortal coil with a resounding finish, is being a loner. You didn't need people, hell you preferred to be without them. Fuck people, you'd rather sit in the corner and write poetry, you stupidly referred to as 'raps'.

It was your senior year in high school when you realized that the 'poetry writing emo kid' people were talking about was you. By that time your rep had been solidified, middle school thru high school, 'emo kid who writes poetry'. You were helpless to change it.

If anything you were glad you'd past that shit, it just made you more depressed, and who needs a depressed teenage loner, who no one wanted to get near because they were scared that angst was contagious?

No one needs that particular teenager. Especially not when they can have the fully matured adult version, who has nightmares like children and has a ridiculously one-sided crush on his doctor-friend. The adult version is so much better.

"Dave, are you okay?"

"Just fucking peachy, who the hell's asking?" You turn and are met with strawverry blonde hair and vibrant purple eyes.

"Oh, nobody, I was just checking to see if you were done intensely monologing yet." Rose smiles sweetly at you, sitting in the chair next to your bed. "You seem pretty deep in thought. It's interesting, I haven't seen you think that much since the seventh grade." She allows a small chuckle, and if anything is contagious it's Lalonde's smile. Which you catch immediately despite all your imaginary vaccinations for the thing.

"Just thinking, Rose." You say, sighing a bit and letting your hand rest in your lap. "What are you doing here?"

"John figured if you were going to talk to any therapist or psychologist you might just talk to me. I have high hopes for it, seeing as he's told me what's been happening and you seem to be down on yourself over it." You weren't that obvious, were you? "I had to do quite a bit of research, but while it may be uncommon, it is not unheard of for adults to have night terrors."

Nope. No, you don't want to talk to her about this. It's your issue. It'll go away on it's own.

"Tell me about the dog, if you would please." She sits back and from her purse produces a fucking notepad and a pen. A pen with a little squid shaped eraser stuck to the end.

"Still with the tentacle thing?"

"It makes my patients laugh." She says, making a small motion with her hand. "I've already spoke to John and your brother and with the information they've given me I may be able to figure something out with your input."

You refuse.

"What kind of dog is it?"

You still refuse.

This is not going to happen.

"I think it's a mastiff. I've never been good with dog breeds."

All she does is nod, scribble and pluck a picture from a paperclip. "Is this the dog?" She hands you the picture and it's not in your hand for a second before it's on it's way to the floor.

You're suddenly panicking. Whos dog is that? Is it Rose's? Why is it haunting you?

You feel a hand on your arm and a soft, very professional, voice asking you to relax, that it's only a picture and yeah it is only a picture. So is the one in your dreams. The one that tries to kill you.

"What the actual fuck, Lalonde?" You hiss as she reaches down to pick up the picture, returning it to it's paperclip.

"I'm learning. I would have avoided doing that with any of my real patients. But I still have revenge to exact against you."

"Jesus Christ. You should walk around wth a fucking trigger warning or something." You give a few colorful nicknames as she settles back down in the chair and goes back into therapist-mode.

"So now tell me, of the places you can remember being, the stadium, the house with the shed, the giant backyard, are these all places you've been before?" Wow she's asking dumb questions.

"Yeah, duh. I mean, I think that the house with the shed is where we lived before... Parents shit. The stadium, every year we used to go to see the circus. The backyard was at one of my cousin's houses? I think. Why does this matter?" She only nods, hums and scribble some more, before finally getting to the question you'd bet money she was waiting to ask.

"What about the face? The emotionless one. Have you considered what it could possibly mean?"

Actually, no. You've never really put thought into it. You were always terrified of it, why would you want to think about it?

"Has it ever broken pattern?" You offer a weak shake of your head and she hums more, nods more and scribbles more, before quietly closing the book. "Well I have an appointment with a real patient of mine in a half an hour," She says, "Think about what I've asked you about, okay?" She turns to leave, but stops, turning in her short heels bac to you to say one last thing.

"And call me if the pattern is broken. In any way." She smiles, walks around the other side of the bed and kisses your forehead, smiling at you and again, you mirror it. Silently promising that you'll call.

You haven't the foggiest what she's looking for, but when you drift to sleep this time, you feel a hint better.


	13. He Wants the D

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have an excuse for how long this took.  
> I started school, I got a new computer and had to deal with moving shit from the old one to the new one, and I am working on getting a job so.  
> This should begin progressing again.  
> Sorry for the wait.

You've been listlessly browsing the internet for the past three days while your hands and feet heal, mostly you've been researching shit. Maybe something will come up that can help you but the sites you've come across have been ultimately unhelpful.

John has stopped avoiding you, however, which is a plus. It's actually his laptop you're using. He says he brought you his because yours was connected to so much shit he didn't know what he could and couldn't unplug; you don't blame him. He sits quietly as you browse, allowing yourself a small hum when you come across something interesting.

You also take this moment to be a huge douche and look at his browsing history.

Unsurprisingly there's a lot of medical websites, a shopping website, ebay and naturally Facebook, but there's one website that is frequented a lot that makes you laugh at him. "Dude you're so weird." You say, shaking your head and turning the laptop to face him. He turns, quirking an eyebrow and as soon as he sees what's pulled up he snatches the device from your hands. "If only I'd known. I'd put my skills to work and woo you with my fanfictions."

"Oh my god just don't." He groans, rolling his eyes and closing the mac with a small shudder. "You know too much, I may just have to put you into a chemically induced coma now." You laugh a little more.

"I would only write the cheesiest shit for you." You say and he again requests that you stop, but no, you can't relent here. "'I'd only break the rules for you, insert male protagonist name here.'" you mock a swoon and he buries his face in his hands, not passing up an opportunity to give you the bird. "No seriously what do you read?"

He just shakes his head, "I knew giving you my computer was a bad idea. I should have known you'd do something like this."

"If I had to guess, I'm gonna say House. Or Supernatural, you seem like a Supernatural kind of guy, do you watch Supernatural and read fanfictions of the aforementioned show, Egbert?"

"How did you meet Rose!?" He blurts, desperate to change the subject and you simply smile. This was too easy.

"School bus." You say, and he seems greatly relieved by you relenting. "First day of sixth grade, she sat next to me. Because even the high school girls knew I was the cool one. They all wanted to sit next to this stud but Lalonde was the lucky one who got assigned to my seat." You offer a ridiculous eyebrow wiggle and he rolls his eyes in response. "She was a junior at the time and boy did she like to analyze me. She's been that crazy her whole life, by the way."

"I know." You see him smile and now you're curious, so you request he share his story of meeting Rose. "We had a couple classes together in college. Before I went to med-school and she went to her therapist school." You nod. So you've known her longer. Probably not by too much time, but definitely longer. "I think it'll be eight years in a few months, since we met."

"Ha, ten years, suck it, Egbert." You smirk in triumph, and he just shakes his head.

"Big deal, you've known her longer, but I've been around her more. Seriously, I doubt you saw her much outside of bus rides."

"This is true." You nod a little, "But none of this changes the fact that you read fanfiction religiously."

He lets go an annoyed groan and leans back in the chair. "Never letting you use my computer ever again." He says, pinching the bridge of his nose.

The next few days pass without incident, though John makes a point of clearing his browsing history the next few times you use his computer. Eventually you're sat in the passenger seat of his car, on your way home and hugging your legs to your chest like the terrified child you feel like you are.

That exposed feeling never went away, especially after Rose talked to you. You had paid much closer attention to the details of our nightmares the past few days, for her. Nothing seemed off and it just seemed wrong. It seemed wrong that she should know something you don't. Something that may determine how the following nightmares may go.

You get to the apartment and climb out of the car. The pavement under your bare feet is hot, and it feels really good in comparison to the cold tile you've been walking on. You actually just stand by the car, enjoying the toasty pavement before finally heading up the stairs to the apartment with John only a few steps behind.

You get to the door and jiggle the knob before you remember you don't have your key, and you step aside for John. He opens it and lets you in and you are oh so grateful for soft carpet. For the first ten minutes home you just walk around on it, enjoying it. You missed it.

You finally dare to go near the kitchen and despite looking like it's been scrubbed for hours you can see the lightest shade of pink of the white linoleum. It's very quickly that you decide you don't want to go to the kitchen anymore. You might even have to bleach it out, just that slightest pink hue in the white is obviously blood. Not kool-aid, not some sort of sauce or something like that.

It's blood.

Your blood.

You decide to avoid the kitchen for a while. You go to your room and re-acquaint yourself with that instead, taking a long nap in your bed. You slept a lot in the hospital, but no, this was your bed, this was special. This mattress was full of your dead skin cells and you had named all the dust mites like they were your children.

Okay so maybe you didn't name the mites, but this bed was still yours and it felt like home and it was so comfortable you crash almost as soon as you hit it.

You have such a nice dream. Sadly, you're in the hospital, but John is there, and when you wake a few hours later you kind of wonder if John's as good at cuddling in real life as he is in your head.

Because in your head he can cuddle with the best of them.

And then you feel really stupid for hoping he's good at cuddling. You'd be lucky if he was even interested in you, let alone wanted to cuddle with you. Although from experience you know is known to cling to whatever he's in bed with, the whole two times you've woken up next to him (trapped against him like he's a boa constrictor is a possible comparison), and you don't hate it. It's just nicer in your dreams.

Wow, when did you start thinking about that? You feel like you've been staring at the ceiling just thinking about cuddling for the past half an hour and you haven't even noticed the sound of talking outside in the living room.

You'd be able to pick out Rose's voice in a crowd of Karkat's and so you roll out of your bed, walking into the living room to see her and John talking idly about something that stops when you swing around the corner and cast them both a cheeky smirk. "Have I kept you waiting long?" You say before crossing the room and dropping yourself on the couch between them. "I must apologize for being rude, I was so tired." You stretch out 'so' for an extra beat, and they both give you this incredulous look. So unimpressed.

It's then you notice they make similar facial expressions and you can't help but laugh. A lot and they look to each other from either of your sides, like they don't know what's funny.

"You're fairly expressive today, Dave. Is there something wrong?" Rose poses the question once you're able to choke down the giggles and you realize, holy shit, you're being really obvious how you're feeling right now. You don't even remember the last time you actually laughed at something like that.

You fumble for words before just opting to stay silent, your once forgotten poker-face returning to you like you'd never lost it. You compare it to riding a bike and it's oddly fitting. "I dunno, I'm just in a good mood. I got out of the hospital today, in case you hadn't noticed." She quirks a pale eyebrow, humming in disbelief before leaning to look past you at John.

"How has he been since you got home?"

"He won't stop walking on the carpet." John says simply. "And he refused to wear shoes the entire ride home."

"Yeah, I got my foot stank all over John's passenger seat. It'd be in your best interest to keep away from his car for the rest of it's life. You don't even understand how ridiculously melodramatic he was being about it, just saying 'ew, Dave put your shoes on, that's so nasty' and I'm like 'fuck that noise, I'm an american I have freedom to do whatever the fuck I want in your car as long as I'm wearing a seatbelt'," You point a finger from your shoulder to your hip like a seat belt, "and he gets all pissy and says to me 'dude how do you even walk around without shoes on outside' and it's like, shit, man my feet are scarred the fuck up and I need to acclimate the new skin to it's life, you know what I mean, Rose?" and Rose is still giving you that look like she can't believe you're capable of talking so much.

"Has he always talked so much?" John's addressing Rose again and she gives him a slow nod.

"Unfortunately. The first few weeks of our acquaintance he made it a point to broaden my vocabulary with words even I didn't know were capable of being used in such creative ways." She smiles. "Particularly words of a more obscene nature." She lets go a warm chuckle and a small bit of the smile from before returns.

"We've only just scratched the surface, John." You say with a serious nod. "It only gets worse the closer we get. You think I'm insufferable now just wait, it's only a matter of time before I decide I want us to be friends forever and start making posters and collages and shit." You make a nonsense motion with your hands, which he responds to with a very large and exaggerated roll of his eyes.

"You're right, we should break out the craft supplies. Glitter everywhere, those weird scissors that cut patterns, like zig zags or a zipper looking pattern." He smirks at you and you feel an embarrassing twist in your stomach but you easily quell it for a response.

"Shit, yeah, some paper with zebra print patterns on it, or camo if you're feeling manly. Nothing says best friends forever like an animal print collage that says 'BFFsies' at the top in pink glitter. We'd never get it all out of the carpet. Herpes of the craft world I say, it never goes away. We'll do some other cool shit too, like some sick embossing or something. Get some stamps in here, might even break out the glue gun."

"Embossing, Dave?" John has to stopper the charade, to question your knowledge.

"I tried being artsy once, it didn't work, but I did a lot of research." You nod quickly, feeling a bit proud of yourself for knowing the most random shit on the planet.

"I'm also extremely learned in the arts of cross-stitch and making candles."

This time they both look confused. "I had a lot of free time as a kid." you say, nodding.

"I think Dave needs another nap." John says slowly, looking to Rose who nods in agreement.

"Oh come on, I release my artsy side and suddenly everyone's hating on the Strider. Heaven forbid I have hobbies, geeze."

"Have you ever actually made anything with these things you know."

"Hell yeah! My Bro's first time, the mood was set by my handiwork. The delicate glow of fire light made that half hour romantic as shit. I am more than just a pretty face, John." You turn to him and shake your head. "I am hurt by you only seeing me as a shell. I have feelings you know. I'm complicated. It's hard and no one understand."

"You got that right." He scoffs a bit, leaning back on the arm of the couch, "You were so quiet in the hospital I kind of hoped you'd get used to it."

"It takes twenty-three days to form a habit." You say, smiling at him and he just shakes his head a little at you, but he's smiling which is good.

"I almost feel like I'm intruding on your private time by sitting here. Like watching the slow build-up to a bad porn. If this is the foreplay I don't want to be here for the main event." Rose stands from her seat on the couch, cocking her beautifully curved hip to one side and smiling mischievously at the two of you. "Dave, you should call me more often, we don't speak nearly enough." She gives a small wave and turns, leaving after both you and John call a goodbye after her.

You turn back to John and turn yourself, lying back on the couch and spreading your arms out. "I'm done with foreplay. Take me now or forever hold your peace." You say jokingly and the look he gives you...

Oh.

He looks like he wants it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO THERE IS A BIG TIME GAP  
> Like a two month time gap between this chapter and the next.  
> Just clarifying.  
> Because it's confusing.


	14. In Which The Shit Hits The Fan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have my reasons for waiting this long to post the final few chapters.
> 
> As a result of waiting I have grown a mild distaste for this story, for various reasons and intend to post the last three chapters all at once.
> 
> As stated before there was a TWO MONTH time gap between the previous chapter and this one.
> 
> I waited TWO MONTHS to post this chapter after chapter 13.

It's late. You scroll slowly through walls of text, reading carefully and biting down hard on your hand to keep from laughing.

"These are... Really depressing, Dave. How did you ever convince yourself these were raps?"

You turn to John, who's sitting on your bed, clad in nothing but one of your sweaters, and skimming the lines you'd written on a sheet of paper years ago. There's two stacks of these papers, you think it's safe to assume they're the 'read' and 'not read yet' piles. "What did the folder say on the front?"

He picks up the green folder, turning it around to you. "Physics, Mr. Henner." He says and all you do is nod.

"Those are from my senior year." You explain simply, sliding out of the desk chair and placing yourself on the bed next to him, skimming over the lines. "That was the year I decided to try writing real poetry. Because chicks dig poetry." He seems to nod a bit.

"Some guys do too." He says plainly.

"Do you happen to be one of those guys?" You smirk and he laughs at you.

"I don't think I can go again, if that's what you're hinting at." He lifts a hand and pushes away your face, before leaning on your shoulder so you can read with him. "You just make yourself out to be so lonely in these. You never seemed like the guy who'd care about being around people."

You give an indifferent shrug, "And you never seemed like a Dean and Castiel shipper, but here we are." You motion to the computer and he gives you a look like before, when he threatened to chemically induce a coma in you. "Hey, part of this whole boyfriends deal was you read my shit I read yours. It's give and take time, John. I gave you my depressing inner turmoil and you've given me your secret infatuation with gay angels and monster hunters."

"Have you ever even seen the show?"

"Other than previews?" You look up, exaggerating giving it thought. "Nope."

"I will change that. One day." And you believe him. Not because you think you'd even like the show, but because he sounds very serious about this.

"But, seriously." He shoves a paper in your face. "'Darkness of despair'? I feel like I should be worried about your well-being." You chuckle a little.

"You're not already worried?" He opens his mouth to say something before it snaps shut, his bright blue eyes switching between you and the paper in his hands. His brow furrows and you tilt your head to look at him better, to see what he's thinking.

"Have you ever shown these to Rose?"

"Wow, dude, no." You say simply, allowing yourself a slight blanch. "If she analyzes me now imagine if she saw these. She'd have a motherfucking field day. She'd make me an actual patient, she'd sit me on a couch and make me talk and then say 'and how does that make you feel' and I'd have to answer her." You shake your head again for extra confirmation. "No. Rose hasn't seen these and that's not changing no matter what you say to me."

"Well think about it, there's a high chance your nightmares are due to something psychological, and whether you know it or not it takes more than a rhyming dictionary to write this kind of stuff." He shuffles through the papers, handing a few to you, "Poetry is the best way to look into someone's head, y'know." He gives a short nod and you shake your head.

"I am not showing these to Rose. It almost physically hurt my ego to show them to you."

"I'm flattered."

"You're welcome. But I still feel that way."

You hear him sigh and take the paper back from you, and waving at the computer. "Keep reading you haven't even gotten to the best part." Is all he says as he returns to your work and you go and sit back down, moving on to the next chapter.

So your new boyfriend reads weird shit on the internet. You can deal with that, as long as beyond this point you don't read any of it ever again. You'll give him credit, they're good stories, but not your thing.

He does, however, become completely enveloped in your writing. You're ninety percent sure he hasn't put on real clothes all day because he's been reading non-stop. And texting, you do see him send a text every now and again. You don't try to guess who he's talking to, he doesn't really make many facial expressions between reading and writing, you're playing Assassin's Creed by the time he finally leaves your room, now wearing pants, and plops down next to you.

He doesn't say anything, but the looks he gives you from the corner of his eyes tells you a lot about what he's thinking. One perk of the shades, you tell him when he questions how you know what he's thinking. You can see his face but he can't see yours. That whole metaphor about eyes being the gateway to the soul? You believe in that shit whole-heartedly.

"What's the matter?" You ask as you press buttons on your controller, peeking at him next to you. "You look down. Did my depressing high school English projects make you sad?" He gives a sort of shrug and lifts his hand pointing and telling you what you're supposed to do. To which you look, and give it thought and realize you're right and you've been on the wrong side of the map the entire time.

"You suck at this game." He says with a smirk and you turn, placing a hand on your chest.

"I am offended, good sir. I would like to see you do any better."

You hand him the controller and are thoroughly schooled in the ways of virtual badassery.

You just watch him play for an hour and a half before finally breaking his concentration.

"You are so hot to me right now." You say, shaking your head and he repeats the motion of shoving you away by your face, thoroughly focused on the game. Not you, the game.

You must change this.

A task that is very easy, with you being you and all.

You wait until the next time he saves and then give it some time. It's only when everyone is trying to kill him that you make your move, closing the empty space (the small empty space) and tilting his head to the side, immediately receiving a reaction.

He gets out something along the lines of "No, Dave, wait" before you start kissing his neck and from that point getting his attention is a piece of cake. The game is forgotten long enough and he pushes you off of him, "Why?" He groans as the character dies and you smile at him.

"I'm an attention whore. It was in the fine print when you agreed to this shit, you can't not pay attention to me for too long or I begin to wither away, and I don't want to die, John. So I have to go about getting your attention myself." You smile at him and he settles an unamused stare at you.

"Hey, not my fault you didn't read the fine print."

"What about work?" He asks, looking fairly proud of himself. "You gonna die every time I have a twenty-nine hour shift? Because those are a thing that happens." He smiles and your face becomes straight in response. Now you are the unamused one. "Uh-huh, that's what I thought." He says, nodding like he's very proud of himself. "You'll have to deal with being by yourself every now and again."

You open your mouth for a witty response before your phone starts vibrating and playing a song you had made Rose's ringtone. You're almost tempted not to answer, but John motions for you to pick it up and, reluctantly, you get off of him, grabbing it, and pressing the answer button, holding it to your ear.

"Whadya want?" You ask and John stands, heading away from the living room and you lean back on the couch.

"I simply wanted to talk. I have a bit of spare time and John was kind enough to send me your work from high school."

"Remind me to punch him later."

"Of course. But, Dave, this is very nice I don't know why you would keep this from me."

"Because my head isn't your playground. My mind isn't some fancy park equipment with which you can have your merry way. My prefrontal cortex is not a swingset or a slide, it's a part of my brain. A part of my brain with a sign that reads 'stay off'."

"I wasn't even talking about that." You can hear the smile in her voice. She was totally talking about that. "Dave, this is actually very helpful, while these are a handful of years old if you still feel the same way then I can use them to help me just the same."

You feel yourself curl up more than really execute the action, hugging your knees to your chest and glaring at the imaginary Rose sitting in front of you right now. "It was a phase, Rose. You were there for most of it, and the aftermath."

"Yes, but I had no idea you were tearing up such beautiful work." You hear a shuffling noise, like papers being rustled around and tapped into alignment on a wooden desk. It actually calms you a notch. "Honestly these are publishable, in my eyes."

"Can you get to the point." You grumble as John re-seats himself next to you, now holding a cup of what you assume to be coffee. You tilt the phone away from your mouth and look at him.

"I'm in trouble aren't I?" He says, but doesn't even sound remotely sorry.

You just roll your eyes and return your attention to Rose, more paper rustling, a sound like some falling to the ground. "The point is, Dave, that I think I know what could be troubling you." You don't speak so she takes it as a cue to continue. "It truly is loneliness."

"You make it sound so simple." You say with a small sigh. "I'm not lonely though. I have you and John. Up until a month and a half ago I had Karkat."

"Yes, you aren't lonely right now, but you're lonely in the way that no one truly understands what you went through when you were younger." Her mood seems to have dropped. "I know about your mother. And what your father did as a reaction, your brother didn't leave that out. These are things you remember though."

Consider yourself curious. "Okay. What sort of tiny detail has escaped my brain. I was a kid, Rose I'm not going to remember every tiny thing that happened."

"It's not really a tiny thing, Dave, in fact your conscience was able to successfully block out a large amount of your childhood in favor of being overwhelmed with the deaths occurring around you. Simply put, the dog I showed you at the hospital was yours."

You feel yourself tense. A lot. John actually looks worried as you grit out for Rose to explain why the dog being yours has anything to do with anything and she hesitates. You repeat the request, quieter, slower, softer.

She clears her throat and there's more shuffling. She must be getting things ready to go home. "The week before your mother passed away your dog, Basket, according to your brother, was hit by a car. You were walking him by yourself and he was significantly larger than you. He wandered into the street, pulling you along and was hit." You are still tense as she talks, and you realize after a moment of your silence that you're shaking. A lot. She waits for a moment before continuing. "All of my knowledge is coming from your brother but according to him you were devastated until your mother passed. You stopped mourning the dog and mourned her instead and then-" She seems to cut herself off, taking in a deep breath and you finally realize John is holding you.

You barely catch her talking about the events that transpired with your old man as that wall blocking out the dog come down, reminding you of so many things and finally the dog getting hit. The feelings you had at the time. You were eight, was it any surprise you reacted the way you did. "When your father passed away something in your head chose to block one death and it chose the dog."

"I don't get why this makes me lonely." You say, your voice strained and you feel like if you talk too much you'll snap.

The world around you sort of fades in and out, you catch snippet's of what Rose is saying, but not all of it. Not enough to turn it into a coherent thought. You feel your phone slip from between your fingers and all you can bring your body to do is turn and grab onto John, who holds you through your kind-of-sort-of-mental breakdown.

Your mind is catching up to you and it's not good. You're probably not handling it as best as you could, you kin of just dropped Rose back there. John was kind enough to take the phone and talk to her for you.

You're really happy to have him around. He's useful.

Once you finally touch back down to Earth all you want to do is sleep. The past fuck knows how long has been mentally trying and you're fucking done.

Never has there been a person more done than Dave Strider at this particular moment in time.

You sit up just a tiny bit to tell John you want to be released so you can sleep and be tormented in your dreams instead of reality, but the sight of him, already asleep on your shoulder, cuts the words off and you resign to getting comfortable here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Funny thing about this, in this story John vows to make Dave watch Supernatural, in Through Thick and Thin John successfully makes Dave watch Supernatural, in exchange for watching Doctor Who.
> 
> I just really like the idea of John being a Supernatural nerd okay.


	15. In That Moment, You Were Lonely

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The final night terror, the one in which Dave realizes 'oh well maybe Rose was right.'

You wake in your room, quietly, wordlessly. You allow yourself to just stare at the ceiling for a few minutes, rolling over and immediately missing the warmth you'd gotten used to since you and John were together. Your bed is cold. It doesn't feel like there's been anyone in it except for you for a while.

You reason to yourself that he's probably in his room. Or the kitchen. You did kind of have a fit when you talked to Rose. So you roll out of your bed, crafting an apology as you step out of your room.

You turn to the left, where his door would normally be. You say normally because it's not there. There is no door. Only a wall.

You press a hand to the textured surface, a small push and it doesn't give way.

Something's not right. Very not right. You go for the kitchen which is empty. The living room is in the same state. You go for your phone and to your contacts, your mind set on finding out where the fuck he is but upon opening your contacts it's empty.

There's small gray text that reads 'Wow! You don't have any contacts!' and you feel this sinking feeling in your stomach, a feeling like someone touching your lower back ghosts through your mind as you shake your head.

This is one of John's legendary pranks, you just know it. You don't know how he did his door, but your phone has no password. This is a pretty mean prank, though.

You punch in the number to the best your memory can serve before you press it to your ear, sitting on the couch with an annoyed huff.

It rings once.

You look around the apartment anxiously as you notice that there are things missing.

It rings twice.

His things.

The phone makes a clicking noise, and then you hear his voice.

"Hello?"

"Hey, where are you?" You ask, and feel your leg bouncing with some sick combination of fear and a hundred other things.

"Uh. Who is this?"

You feel your stomach hit the floor, that feeling of fingers on your back raising, brushing your ribs carefully and forcing you to let out a high pitch laugh. "John that's not funny! Seriously, this is such a dick thing to do." You grab your hair in anger. "Seriously Rose would be so pissed if she found out."

There's silence for a while, before he talks again. "Wow, okay, you obviously know me." He chuckles a little and it's nice. It makes your skin tingle before he talks again. "I don't remember you, though." He laughs again, but this time he sounds embarrassed.

"Are you fucking kidding me, Egbert? I know you love to prank people but this? It's too much. Stop it and come home." There's more silence, before it's cut off by people talking back and forth, then the sound of a phone changing hands. The next voice is Rose's.

"I apologize for this," Oh thank god, you think before "but it seems you may have gotten the wrong number. What a coincidence that you would have the number of some other John who knew a Rose, though."

"Holy shit, Rose you're in on it too?"

She confusedly asks 'what' and you have never wanted to punch something so bad before. "Jesus Christ if I have to fucking play along I'll play along." You sigh, leaning back on the couch. "Hello there my name is Dave Strider, don't worry about not recognizing me you're only my best friend for the past ten years."

You hear her move the phone away, asking someone if they happen to know a Dave Strider and you hear John's voice return with a simple 'no.' "I'm sorry, but you have the wrong number." Rose says to you. "Goodbye." You yell for her to wait and luckily she heard you and is listening again.

"Let me talk to John again." You say and she lets free an annoyed noise, and you hear the phone trading hands once more.

"Dave?" John says and you nod to yourself quickly, hugging yourself with your free arm.

"Yes, fucking shit you're being such an asshole right now. Seriously I would hit you if I wasn't worried you'd hit back."

"Um, can you tell me how we met, maybe you can jog my memory?" He sounds so serious. You almost want to cry he sounds to serious about that statement.

"Craigslist. I needed a roommate and I chose you and we've lived together for almost seven months. You were my doctor in the hospital when I cut myself up a lot." You pause, biting your lip. "You're my boyfriend." You find yourself mumbling and you lean forward on your legs, squeezing yourself as he's quiet for too long. Way too long.

"Ooookay, you definitely have the wrong number." He says with a laugh. "That or you are wasted, dude. I mean if you need help finding your boyfriend or-" You hang up the phone, setting it aside and curling in on yourself. You don't remember anyone else's number other than Rose's and she's apparently with John and they're both being assholes right now.

You think you might be able to remember your brother's so you punch it into your phone and call him. No way in Hell they convinced Bro to do this with them.

"Hello?" it didn't even finish the first ring.

You sigh when it's his voice, thought you weren't sure why you were worried it wouldn't be. "Hey, Bro." You sigh. "I think John and Rose are playing a trick on me. All my phone contacts are gone and they're acting like they don't know me." You pinch the frayed end of the string for your sweats as you wait for his response.

"Who are John and Rose?" Your head snaps up, and you stare at the wall ahead of you. You hang up. You press back against the couch and those fingers, the ones that had been on your back now drift over your shoulder blades, lightly and, if you thought about it, comfortingly. You find yourself leaning back into the touch, though it doesn't get any closer.

The fingers drift higher, tracing shapes between your shoulder before ghosting up the back of your neck and silently petting your hair. You don't find it in yourself to fight them away.

You know what it is. You know where they're going before they even trail down the back of your neck. But instead of grabbing and cutting off your air the hands shove you. Hard. You fall forward, bang your head on a solid surface you could have sworn was carpet before and when you sit up the world around you is black. It's empty and you're alone.

You realize then you've always been alone.

During those nights when your dreams are horrific. You've always been by yourself. You never start off with people and get seperated you don't start out alone and get lost in crowds.

You are alone. It's you, the face and everything else is just a prop set up to lure you into it's hands.

You find yourself oddly content with this realization.

You sit up in the empty space. It's cold. You don't feel scared, though as you sit there, waiting in silence for the face. The inevitable.

You don't know how much time passes. You just know you want to wake up. You want to sit on the couch and watch John play video games or listen to Rose go on for hours about whatever it is she's always going on about. You really really want to. But it never ends until he shows up. You never hear John's voice, coaking you into consciousness, until after the face shows up.

The wait becomes unbearable. You can't do it anymore and you stand, knowing that if you do something something will happen so you begin to walk. Not sure where to, but you begin to walk and as you walk it quickly becomes apparent you are getting nowhere. But you continue on, hoping silently that he'll show. That he'll put you out of your misery.

You don't know what triggers him, but soon you see it. A white speck against the dark surrounding you. With a purpose you walk toward him.

It's in front of you before long, staring at you the way it does and you relax. Your head drops and you just want it to be over. You can't take the loneliness. You can't handle being so fucking isolated.

When you next look up it to a hand on your cheek. Not a ghostly ethereal hand, but a real, warm human one.

When you see another you it's obvious. This version of you looks so fucking sad and for some reason you want to tell him to sack the fuck up, grow a pair and get over it. But he's you, and you can't. You can't tell yourself to get over it.

He pats your shoulder and reaches for your throat and you don't resist him. You stand stock still as he cuts off your breathing and he holds it.

You get light headed and you feel your lungs struggling. It burns but you don't hear John's voice, calling you out of it. You haven't heard him say your name at all. You haven't heard his voice since he was asking if you were drunk.

It's this moment when you begin to panic, just a little bit. You don't know what'll happen if you actually suffocate in your sleep just because your body is telling not to.

"No, dude, you're being strangled right now you can't breath or it won't feel realistic." Says your body while you're here trying to live.

You feel the world around you fading and you're suddenly jerking forward, taking in an impossibly large amount of air, begging for it to fill your lungs.

The inside of the apartment is too stifling, there's not enough here, you can't catch your breath in here.

You shove yourself off of the couch, not bothering to care with the way John is thrown to the floor as you stumble to the balcony door, getting yourself outside and falling to your knees. There's bound to be enough air outside.

And as you force in large amounts of oxygen you feel your head hurting, your chest is tight and everything is blurry. There's hands on your back, rubbing and comforting as you force air in and out of your system, which aches in appreciation.

You hold on tightly to the metal bars on the balcony, slowly, oh so slowly, you've calmed down. You lean your head forward and the thin line of cold from the bar coaxes a sigh from your lungs.

"John." You croak, and the hands on your back still as he hums in acknowledgement. "I think I might be lonely." You mumble, turning away from the outside world and to him, sitting there and looking tired and worried and you feel a small part of yourself hate you for doing this to him. For putting him through all of this.

You don't ask him to, and he doesn't warn you, but he leans forward, hugging you to his chest and whispering for you to sleep. You don't want to. You really don't, but as he holds you and mumbles to you and you begin to feel warmer you drift, slipping back into sleep as he tells you that you're going to be okay. That it's going to get better.


	16. Dreams You Enjoy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Final chapter woo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last chapter, yay, happy ending all that shit.

"We haven't talked about your father yet, Dave. We should talk about him."

"Do I have to?"

"I suppose not. But we've talked about your mother. Your brother and John. Your friend Karkat. We haven't talked about your father."

"I guess... It's for the best, isn't it?"

"We could make a lot of progress if you'd tell me."

"I guess. I can talk about him. Kind of been trying to avoid it. For obvious reasons."

"They're not obvious to me."

"Just. Okay, fine. So when my mom died he didn't take it as great as he could have... He did what any rational person would do, he got super depressed and wouldn't function for a few weeks. But when he did start to function again he was... Different."

"Different how, Dave?"

"Mostly angrier. He yelled a lot more about less impressive feats of stupidity. He just yelled at us for a while, but it got worse, and part of me thinks it's justifiable. I kind of killed his wife and all."

"Dave, we've talked about this."

"I know, just. If she hadn't gotten sick from me then she wouldn't have gone to the hospital where they figured out all the other shit was wrong with her and then her death would have been a fluke and I wouldn't have been the reason."

"How did it get worse?"

"Fuck, okay, jesus. So, like, it went from him being angry at both of us all the time, to him just being mad at me. And while he wasn't yelling at Bro anymore he had more time to yell at me, pretty much the only time he wasn't verbally abusing me was when I went to school or to some bullshit thing my classmates invited me to. It was when I was ten that it just... Escalated. Got way worse, like someone should have been calling CPS on this bullshit that went down next.

"So I was minding my own goddamn business when he gets home from work and decides 'oh hey let me go yell at Dave some more for some random bullshit I have concocted in my head' and he storms into my room, hackles up and hissing like a territorial tom-cat and I'm just sitting there taking it like I always did because yelling back never did any good.

"He gets pissed that I'm not responding or 'taking responsibility for my actions' and then he just... Reeled back and smacks the bejesus out of me. Like it wasn't a big deal. I mean it was a big deal to me, the only time I ever got hit was by this fat dick in my theater arts class who said my acting was shit and I punched him in the stomach.

"But it was different, it's like 'this is my dad I can't hit my dad, it is a thing that I can't do'. So I just sort of sat there, confused as shit and not wanting to fight back because I didn't want to get hit more and he storms off and slams some doors and it was like it was over."

"How did your brother react when he found out?"

"He didn't. Not really, for a while at least. It never got much worse than a smack or two until after Bro moved out, when I was twelve. I mean once he wasn't around it was like every day was Kick the Crap Outta Dave Day.

"Then I came home one day when I was fourteen and he was just." You make a nonsense hand motion here, searching for words.

"Hanging there." You look at the woman before you, legs crossed as she carefully writes on her pad of paper. She looks up when you stop and she looks as professional as ever as she asks this.

"How did your father's suicide effect you?"

You're silently thankful for her choice of phrasing it, and you let out a long sigh. You're not sure what you felt completely. You do, however, remember how relieved you were. You remember how guilty that made you feel. How you felt like you were responsible for his death as well.

"I hated myself." You say simply and she writes, setting the notepad to the side. "I was happy, but I was scared and I didn't know what was going to happen. Bro got custody of me and I moved in with him."

"You told me he wasn't around much. How did that feel?"

"Fucking awful. I just got there and he looks at me and says 'I have to go to work now, Dave, don't break my shit.' and just left for a few days." You look between the therapist and your hands in your lap, trying to come up with more. Fucking awful pretty much describes it though. You resign yourself to tell her more. "Even when he was around he didn't talk to me. Pretty much at all. He didn't find out about Dad hitting me until I let it slip while we were playing a video game." You sigh a bit then. "Of course, then he became unbearably motherly. Like he quit his great job and got one close to home, some hourly bullshit at a supermarket just so he could stay with me more. He went from indifferent to all up in my business in two seconds flat."

She nods slowly, a small smile forming on her dark colored lips. "Surely you must have enjoyed the affection. You hadn't had any for what must have been years."

"Just about eight years." You mumble and her smile falls again.

"I'm sorry, Dave." She says and you look up at her now.

"It's no big deal, Rose. I mean, I had you. I guess you were relatively affectionate."

"If I had been aware of your situation at the time I would have done something to stop it." She says with a serious nod. "However, we are at our time limit today. I'm afraid it's time for you to go home and me to see my next patient." She stands and moves closer, lowering herself so she's eye-level with you. "How have the nightmares been?"

You smile at this, rather proud of this piece of information. "Haven't had any in three months." You say and she nods approvingly, standing again and stepping back. You stand and when she offers her hand for a shake you push it away, opting to hug her instead. She responds by hugging you as well and patting your back.

"Thank you." You mumble and you hear the smile in her voice as she gives you your welcome.

"Now go home. I think there may be a surprise waiting for you." She gives your shoulder a squeeze and smiles at you and you take her advice, thinking that there better be a fucking present waiting at home for you. Six months of Lalonde-style therapy deserves a celebration.

When you get to your apartment and open the door, there's a surprising lack of parade floats, but there is a sign stuck to the wall in the living room, and a very happy looking John perched on the very edge of the couch waiting for you to return. You step in and barely see the fact that he was sitting before he's crossed the room and wrapped his arms around you. "Congratulations." He grins that goofy grin of his as he welcomes you home and you smile at him.

You enjoy his company for the next few hours, eat some celebratory cookies (John has a thing with cake you learn) and watch a movie until he has to go to work.

It's late enough by that time that you decide it's time to go to bed.

And as you sleep you are not attacked by nightmares. You are not fearful of your inevitable sleep.

You sleep peacefully, and dream about John and Rose.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I remember when I finished this on ff.net I promised my readers celebratory smut but never actually wrote it.
> 
> Sorry about that.


End file.
